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OLDFIELD 


THE  LIBRARY 

J1N1VERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
^--^  JA)S  ANGELES 


OLDFIELD 


A   KENTUCKY   TALE    OF   THE 
LAST   CENTURY 


WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS  BY  HARPER  PENNtNGTON 


ETelri  gork 
THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY 

LONDON:   MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  LTD. 
I9O2 

All  rights  reserved 


COPYRIGHT,  1902, 
BY  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY. 


Set  up  and  electrotyped  May,  1902.     Reprinted  July, 
August,  September,  October,  1902. 


NortoooO 

J.  S.  Gushing  &  Co.  —  Berwick  &  Smith 
Norwood  Mam.  U.S.A. 


Co  jWg  Jfatfjer 


2134511 


CONTENTS 


I.  THE  LITTLE  SISTERS        .... 

II.  THE  OLDFIELD  PEOPLE    .... 

III.  PHASES  OF  VILLAGE  LIFE 

IV.  THE  CHILD  OF  Miss  JUDY'S  HEART 
V.  AN  UNCONSCIOUS  PHILOSOPHER 

VI.  LYNN  GORDON 

VII.  THE  DOCTOR'S  DILEMMA 

VIII.  AT  OLD  LADY  GORDON'S 

IX.  A  ROMANTIC  REGION        .... 

X.  RELIGION  IN  OLDFIELD    .... 

XI.  BODY  OR  SOUL 

XII.  Miss  JUDY'S  LITTLE  WAYS 

XIII.  THE  DANCING  LESSON       .... 

XIV.  MAKING  PEACE 

XV.  SIDNEY  DOES  HER  DUTY 

XVI.  THE  SHOCK  AND  THE  FRIGHT 

XVII.  LOVE'S  AWAKENING 

XVIII.  AN  EMBARRASSING  ACCIDENT  . 

XIX.  INVOKING  THE  LAW 

XX.  THE  CONFLICT  BETWEEN  FAITH  AND  LOVE 

XXI.  WHAT  OLDFIELD  THOUGHT  AND  SAID 

XXII.  THE  UPAS  TREE 

XXIII.  THE  BEGINNING  OF  THE  END  . 

XXIV.  OLD  LADY  GORDON'S  ANGER   . 
XXV.  THE  REVELATION  OF  THE  TRUTH     . 

XXVI.  THE  TRAGEDY 

XXVII.  THE  LAST  ARTFULNESS  OF  Miss  JUDY    . 


FAG* 

I 
17 

35 

45 

58 

74 

89 

101 

117 

138 
156 
170 
190 

211 
230 
248 
265 
282 
296 
316 
331 

347 
362 

374 
386 

399 
411 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

"Which  he  wore  like  a  Roman  toga  !  "  (Chap.  II)    Frontispiece 

FACING   PAGE 

" '  Those  endearing  young  charms '"         *         .         .  52 
"  The  doctor  was  growling "       .         .        .        .        .         .156 

"  She  came  in,  radiant  with  smiles  " 226 

"  '  Do  you  know  any  girls  who  work  ? '  "    .         .         .         .  276 

"  '  Grave  fiddlesticks,1  retorted  she  " 306 

"  She  played  ceaselessly  " 33° 

"  His  hand  caught  one  of  the  portico  pillars  "...  402 


OLDFIELD 

i 

THE    LITTLE    SISTERS 


THE  old  white  curtain  was  slightly  too  short. 
Its  quaint  border  of  little  cotton  snowballs 
swung  clear  of  the  window  ledge,  letting  in  the 
sunbeams.  The  flood  of  light  streaming  far 
across  the  faded  carpet  reached  the  high  bed, 
and  awakened  Miss  Judy  earlier  than  usual  on 
that  bright  March  morning,  in  the  Pennyroyal 
Region  of  Kentucky,  a  half  century  ago. 

Miss  Judy  was  always  awake  early,  and 
usually  arose  while  her  sister  lay  still  fast 
asleep  on  the  other  side  of  the  big  bed.  She 
had  learned,  however,  to  creep  so  softly  from 
beneath  the  covers,  and  to  climb  so  quietly 
down  the  bed's  steep  incline,  that  Miss  Sophia 
was  hardly  ever  in  the  least  disturbed.  More 
over,  Miss  Judy  always  kept  a  split-bottomed 
chair  standing  near  her  pillow  at  night.  This 
served  not  only  as  a  stand  for  the  candlestick 
and  matches,  —  so  that  the  candle  need  not 
be  blown  out  before  Miss  Sophia  was  comfort 
ably  cuddled  down  and  Miss  Judy  was  in  bed, 
—  but  it  also  furnished  a  dignified  and  com 
paratively  easy  means  of  ascending  the  bed's 
heights.  On  descending,  Miss  Judy  had  but  to 


Oldfield 

step  decorously  from  the  mound  of  feathers 
to  the  chair  and  to  drop  delicately  from  the 
chair  to  the  floor. 

To  have  seen  Miss  Judy  doing  this*  must 
have  been  a  sight  well  worth  seeing.  She  was 
so  very  pretty,  so  small,  so  slight,  so  exquisite 
altogether.  Old  as  she  was,  she  had  still  the 
movements  of  a  bird.  Her  sweet  old  face 
was  as  fair  as  any  girl's,  and  as  ready  with  its 
delicate  blushes.  Her  soft  hair,  white  as  falling 
snowflakes  and  as  curly  as  a  child's,  was  bur 
nished  by  a  silver  gloss  lovelier  than  the  sheen 
of  youth.  And  her  beautiful  eyes  were  still  the 
blue  of  the  flax  flowers. 

Lifting  her  shining,  curly  head  on  that  sunny 
morning,  Miss  Judy  cast  a  glance  of  dismay  at 
the  ruthless  sunbeams  lying  on  the  carpet,  and 
she  could  not  help  a  slight  start.  Then  she 
held  her  breath  for  a  moment,  turning  her  blue 
eyes  on  the  back  of  Miss  Sophia's  nightcap,  in  a 
look  of  anxious  love.  It  always  gave  Miss  Sophia 
a  headache  to  be  aroused  suddenly.  Miss  Judy 
was  afraid  that  the  involuntary  movement  might 
have  startled  her.  They  were  very  tender  of 
each  other,  these  two  poor  little  sisters.  And 
they  were  very,  very  polite  to  one  another; 
more  polite  to  one  another  than  they  were  to 
others,  if  that  were  possible.  Miss  Sophia,  who 
could  not  always  remember  the  smaller  matters 
of  fine  breeding  where  other  people  were  con 
cerned,  never  forgot  the  smallest  courtesy  toward 
her  sister.  Miss  Judy,  who  was  ever  the  pink 
—  the  sweetest,  old-fashioned  clovepink  —  of 


The  Little  Sisters 

politeness  to  everybody,  always  treated  Miss 
Sophia  with  such  distinguished  consideration 
as  was  a  lesson  in  manners  to  see.  And  no  one 
ever  smiled :  it  was  too  lovely  to  be  laughed  at 
—  too  sincere  to  be  absurd.  Lying  down  side 
by  side  every  night  of  their  long  and  blameless 
lives,  they  formally  wished  each  other  pleasant 
dreams,  and  bade  one  another  a  ceremonious 
good  night.  Rising  every  morning  —  sepa 
rately,  with  delicate  regard  for  the  simple  mys 
teries  of  one  another's  toilet  —  they  greeted  each 
other  at  breakfast  as  two  high-bred  strangers 
might  meet  in  some  grand  drawing-room. 

Leaning  upon  her  elbow,  Miss  Judy  now 
listened  for  a  space  to  her  sister's  breathing. 
She  could  always  tell  when  all  was  well  with 
Miss  Sophia's  slumbers,  by  a  mild  little  puffing 
sound,  which  did  no  harm,  but  which  nothing 
would  ever  have  induced  Miss  Judy  to  men 
tion  to  Miss  Sophia  or  to  any  one.  The  puffs 
continuing  peacefully,  Miss  Judy  smiled  lov 
ingly  and,  laying  the  cover  back  with  no  more 
noise  than  a  mouse  makes,  she  flitted  birdlike 
from  the  mound  of  feathers  to  the  chair  and 
thence  to  the  homemade  rug.  She  was  always 
careful  to  stand  on  the  rug  while  dressing,  in 
order  to  save  the  carpet.  Miss  Sophia  also 
always  meant  to  stand  on  it,  but  she  sometimes 
forgot  that  as  she  did  many  other  things.  The 
carpet  was  long  past  saving,  as  it  was  long  past 
further  fading;  but  neither  Miss  Judy  nor  Miss 
Sophia  had  begun  to  suspect  the  fact.  To  them 
it  was  still  the  elegant  all-wool  three-ply  which 

3 


Oldfield 

their  mother  had  spun  and  woven  and  sewed  with 
her  own  hands.  Accordingly,  Miss  Judy  now 
hastened  to  spread  a  strip  of  rag  carpet  in  the 
sun's  path,  before  commencing  to  dress.  The 
big,  bare  room  was  cold,  the  handful  of  chips, 
which  had  made  a  cheerful  blaze  at  bedtime, 
having  died  out  during  the  night.  But  Miss 
Judy  did  not  know  that  she  was  shivering.  She 
was  not  in  the  habit  of  thinking  of  her  own  com 
fort,  and  it  did  not  occur  to  her  to  kindle  a  fire 
with  the  chips  which  were  in  the  basket  beside 
the  hearth,  until  such  time  as  Miss  Sophia 
should  need  the  warmth.  She  merely  dressed 
as  fast  as  she  could,  lingering  only  over  the  last 
look  in  the  mirror  lying  along  the  top  of  the 
tall  chest  of  drawers.  Such  a  queer  old  mirror ! 
Long  and  narrow  in  its  frame  of  tarnished  gilt, 
with  a  faded  landscape  painted  on  each  dim 
end,  which  was  divided  from  the  rest  of  the  glass 
by  a  solemn  little  column.  The  chest  stood  so 
high  and  Miss  Judy  was  so  small  that  it  was 
not  easy  for  her  to  get  a  good  look  at  her 
straight  little  back.  But  there  was  no  other 
way  of  making  sure  that  the  point  of  her  white 
muslin  kerchief  was  precisely  on  a  line  with  the 
bow  of  her  black  silk  apron  strings.  And  any 
irregularity  in  this  matter  would  have  shocked 
Miss  Judy  as  being  positively  immodest.  She 
managed,  however,  by  standing  on  the  very  tips 
of  her  toes,  to  see  that  all  was  as  it  should  be. 
Settling  her  cap,*  she  bent  down,  and  noiselessly 
taking  the  basket  of  chips,  kindled  a  fire  in  one 
corner  of  the  wide,  empty  fireplace,  thinking  with 


The  Little  Sisters 

a  loving  glance  at  the  bed  that  the  room  would 
be  comfortably  warm  when  Miss  Sophia  got  up. 
Finally,  she  went  into  the  passage  to  open  the 
front  door. 

All  the  Oldfield  front  doors  were  set  open  in 
the  morning  and  left  open  all  day,  whenever  the 
weather  was  reasonably  mild;  except  during  the 
summer,  when  very  few  of  them  were  closed  at 
any  time,  either  night  or  day.  Miss  Judy  alone, 
of  the  whole  village,  always  closed  hers  at  bed 
time  all  the  year  round.  And  she  did  not  do  it 
because  she  was  afraid,  though  everybody  knew 
how  timid  she  was.  It  never  occurred  to  her, 
during  the  whole  of  her  gentle,  innocent  life, 
that  there  could  be  in  the  world  a  living  crea 
ture  who  would  wish  to  do  her  any  harm.  There 
was  really  nothing  for  the  most  timid  to  fear  in 
that  quiet,  peaceful,  pastoral  country.  To  be 
sure,  Alvarado,  The  Terrible,  sometimes  dashed 
into  the  village —  unexpected,  dazzling,  fascinat 
ing,  bewildering — and  out  again  like  a  lightning 
flash.  Then  most  of  the  men  did  indeed  disappear 
as  suddenly  as  though  the  earth  had  opened  and 
swallowed  them  up.  But  Alvarado  never  noticed 
the  women,  and  he  never  came  at  night.  That 
is,  no  one  ever  claimed  to  have  seen  him  gallop 
ing  by  after  nightfall.  Late  watchers  with  the 
sick,  who  were  the  only  late  watchers  in  Old- 
field,  sometimes  told  fearsome  tales  of  thunder 
ous  hoofs  at  midnight  and  of  sparks  that  flew 
blue  through  the  darkness.  But  Miss  Judy  had 
never  seen  or  heard  anything  of  the  kind.  She 
had  never  seen  Alvarado  at  all,  except  in  the  dis- 


Oldfield 

tance  and  surrounded  as  he  always  was  by  a 
cloud  of  dust  and  mystery.  She  was  ever  slow 
to  believe  evil  of  any  one  and  she  rather  leaned 
to  Alvarado's  side.  It  was  unchristian,  she 
thought,  to  ascribe  all  sorts  of  wickedness  to  a 
man  about  whom  no  one  actually  knew  anything 
beyond  the  fact  that  he  was  a  stranger  and  a  for 
eigner  and  had  been  most  unfortunate.  More 
over,  he  had  been  and  was  still  very  unhappy,  and 
the  unfortunate  and  the  unhappy  had  always  a 
friend  in  Miss  Judy.  Then  the  romance  of  his 
marriage  appealed  strongly  to  her  imagination.  It 
was,  of  course,  very  wrong,  and  even  very  wicked, 
for  him  to  have  tricked  and  frightened  poor  Alice 
•  Fielding  into  marrying  him,  but  he  could  hardly 
have  known  that  she  loved  another  man.  No 
body  seemed  to  have  known  it  until  too  late,  — 
not  even  John  Stanley  whom  she  loved,  —  and 
Alvarado  also  had  loved  her.  There  was  never 
any  doubt  of  that.  He  had  not  been  quite  in 
his  right  mind  since  her  death,  many  years  be 
fore.  In  Miss  Judy's  tender  judgment  he  was 
much  more  to  be  pitied  than  to  be  feared.  No, 
Alvarado  had  nothing  to  do  with  Miss  Judy's 
closing  her  door  at  bed-time.  She  had  closed 
it  long  before  he  had  ever  been  heard  of  in  that 
country.  She  closed  it  simply  and  solely  be 
cause  she  considered  it  the  proper  thing  to  do, 
on  account  of  there  being  no  men-folks  about 
the  house.  The  other  lone  women  of  Oldfield 
closed  theirs  too  —  when  they  remembered  to 
do  it  —  without  a  murmur,  no  matter  how  hot 
the  nights  were,  simply  and  solely  because  Miss 

6 


The  Little  Sisters 

Judy  closed  hers;  for  no  right-minded  member  of 
the  whole  community  ever  needed  a  better  reason 
for  doing,  or  not  doing  anything,  than  to  know 
that  Miss  Judy  deemed  it  proper  or  improper. 

This  quality  of  leadership  is  always  interest 
ing,  wherever  found,  and  it  is  nearly  always 
hard  to  explain.  In  Miss  Judy's  case  it  was  even 
harder  to  make  out  than  it  commonly  is.  The 
singularity  of  her  supremacy  had  nothing  to 
do  with  her  poverty.  Neither  poverty  nor 
riches  would  appear  ever  to  have  anything  to 
do  with  the  quality  of  leadership  in  any  part  of 
the  earth,  and  none  of  Miss  Judy's  neighbors 
could  be  considered  either  very  poor  or  more 
than  well-to-do.  The  most  utterly  incompre 
hensible  feature  of  Miss  Judy's  long  and  abso 
lute  reign  was,  perhaps,  her  total  lack  of  every 
personal  characteristic  of  the  autocrat.  It  is 
certainly  not  the  usual  qualification  for  autoc 
racy  to  be  as  gentle  and  shy  as  Miss  Judy 
was  —  or  as  distrustful  of  self  and  as  trustful 
of  others  —  or  as  self-forgetful  and  as  thought 
ful  of  every  one  else.  The  little  lady  was  far  too 
timid  and  soft  of  spirit  knowingly  to  lay  down 
laws  for  any  one :  she  was  only  strong  and  firm 
enough  to  cling  timidly  to  her  own  gentle  con 
victions  through  a  hard  life  of  privation,  as  a  dove 
clings  to  its  nest  through  the  fiercest  storms. 

She  never  dreamt  that  she  was  an  autocrat. 
When  she  noticed  the  universal  and  marked 
deference  with  which  she  was  always  treated, 
she  thought  it  was  because  her  father  had  been 
greatly  respected,  and  her  mother  much  beloved. 


Oldfield 

It  was  quite  natural  that  they  should  have  been, 
Miss  Judy  thought  in  justification  of  her  own 
shining  by  a  reflected  light.  They  had  been 
justly  prominent  among  the  earliest  settlers  of 
the  Pennyroyal  Region,  coming  with  their  two 
infant  daughters  when  Virginia  —  like  a  rich 
and  generous  queen  —  first  began  giving  away 
the  county  of  Kentucky,  to  the  sons  who  had 
served  her  in  the  Revolution.  Those  were 
glorious  days !  To  tell  about  them  now 
sounds  like  a  fairy  tale.  And  yet  they  were 
sad  days  as  well.  For,  great  though  the  honor 
was  and  dazzling  as  was  the  reward,  the  officers 
so  honored  and  rewarded  must  have  known  that 
the  claiming  of  these  lands  meant  lifelong 
exile  for  their  families  and  for  themselves.  It 
would  appear  so,  at  all  events,  since  few  came 
who  could  stay  nearer  to  civilization.  The 
more  fortunate  ones  stayed  on  in  the  old  Vir 
ginia  homes,  content  with  holding  cloudy  titles 
to  vast  estates  lying  in  this  unknown  wilderness 
of  Kentucky ;  and  with  rearing  there  splendid 
castles  in  the  air.  So  very  cloudy,  indeed,  were 
many  of  these  titles  sent  to  Virginia  by  irrespon 
sible  agents,  that  litigation  over  them  has  only 
recently  ceased  in  the  local  courts.  Other  offi 
cers  were  too  poor  to  employ  agents  either  good 
or  bad,  and  these  were  consequently  compelled 
to  go  in  person,  or  to  lose  the  grant  of  land. 
Among  those  reduced  to  this  sore  strait  was 
Major  John  Bramwell,  Miss  Judy's  father,  who 
had  won  distinction  as  a  captain  of  horse  in 
the  War  for  Independence.  The  home-coming 

8 


The  Little  Sisters 

found  him  utterly  stranded.  His  small  patri 
mony  was  long  since  spent,  and  his  wife's  ample 
fortune  had  shrunk  to  a  mere  pittance.  He 
knew  no  means  of  earning  a  livelihood,  knowing 
even  less  of  the  business  of  peace  than  most 
soldiers  know.  Hopelessly  in  debt,  he  knew 
not  where  to  turn  for  relief;  he  knew  not  how 
to  find  bare  bread  for  his  family.  The  new 
home  and  the  fresh  start  in  the  far-off  county 
of  Kentucky  offered  the  only  refuge.  The 
young  wife  consented  to  go,  as  she  would  have 
consented  to  anything  he  wished  or  thought 
best;  for  she  was  the  gentlest  of  women,  and 
her  faith  in  her  husband  was  absolute.  Thus 
it  was  that  they  gathered  up  the  few  fragments 
of  the  old  happy  life,  and,  taking  their  two  little 
ones,  rode  sadly  away  into  exile. 

Sad  indeed  and  heavy-hearted  must  have 
been  all  those  first  gentle-people  who  thus  rode 
away  from  their  old  homes  in  Virginia  over  the 
Alleghanies  into  the  wilderness  of  Kentucky, 
bearing  tender  little  children  in  their  arms. 
Miss  Judy  was  much  too  young  to  remember 
that  terrible  journey,  and  Miss  Sophia  was  only 
a  baby,  but  they  both  knew  all  about  it  as  soon 
as  they  were  old  enough  to  understand.  They 
always  wept  when  they  heard  how  tired  the 
delicate  little  mother  was  before  the  awful 
mountains  were  crossed  —  no  matter  how  often 
they  heard  the  story.  They  always  smiled 
when  they  heard  how  glad  all  the  weary  pil 
grims  were  to  find  a  broad-horn  waiting  to 
bear  the  little  band  down  the  Ohio  —  though 


Oldfield 

they  heard  the  story  over  and  over  again. 
And  they  always  followed  the  broad-horn  with 
ever  new  interest,  on  and  on  down  that  long, 
long  river  through  the  primeval  forest  growing 
to  the  water's  edge.  Forest,  forest,  forest 
everywhere  for  hundreds  of  miles,  till  they 
came  —  with  the  travellers  —  almost  to  the  vast 
mouth  of  the  mighty  river  near  which  the 
Pennyroyal  Region  lies. 

Miss  Judy  was  not  sure  that  it  was  called  so 
when  she  entered  it,  an  infant  in  her  father's 
arms.  She  always  thought  it  more  likely  that 
the  whole  of  Kentucky  may  still  have  been 
known  as  The  Dark  and  Bloody  Ground,  so 
great  were  still  the  sufferings  of  the  brave  men 
and  braver  women  who  were  still  giving  their 
lives  to  redeem  it  from  darkness  and  blood. 
But  there  never  was  the  slightest  doubt  in  Miss 
Judy's  mind  that  these  gentle-people  coming 
now  were  braver  than  any  who  had  come  be 
fore  —  the  bravest  because  they  were  the  gen 
tlest.  It  always  made  her  own  gentle  heart 
beat,  as  if  to  strains  of  martial  music,  to  be  told 
in  the  little  mother's  soft  voice  of  the  leaving 
of  the  broad-horn's  frail  protection,  and  of  the 
undaunted  plunge  into  the  depths  of  the  wil 
derness.  Yet  there  were  dangers  there  to  be 
met  which  courage  itself  must  flee  from.  These 
fearless  Virginians  who  did  not  shrink  from 
facing  savages,  nor  from  encountering  wild 
beasts,  shrank  and  fled  appalled  before  the  more 
frightful  dangers  then  lurking  all  along  the 
banks  of  the  lower  Ohio.  There,  hidden  under 

10 


The  Little  Sisters 

the  beauty  of  the  almost  tropical  vegetation,  was 
the  hideous  rack  of  the  fever  and  ague,  waiting 
ready  to  torture  the  strength  out  of  the  men, 
the  heart  out  of  the  women,  and  the  very  lives 
out  of  the  children.  There,  beneath  the  noble 
trees  and  above  the  wide  open  spaces,  rolling 
like  gentle  prairies  —  sunlit,  flower  filled,  so 
richly  covered  with  wild  strawberries  that  the 
horses'  hoofs  were  dyed  rosy-red  —  there  the 
deadly  mystery  of  "  the  milk-sickness "  was 
already  spreading  its  invisible  shroud  over  the 
whole  beautiful  land. 

Fleeing  from  these  perils  more  to  be  feared 
than  the  crudest  savages,  and  more  to  be 
dreaded  than  the  fiercest  wild  beasts,  the  travel 
lers  went  further  into  the  heart  of  the  wilderness, 
seeking  the  safety  of  higher  ground  ;  on  and  on, 
following  the  buffalo  tracks  which  still  traversed 
the  country  from  end  to  end  like  broad,  hard- 
beaten  highways.  One  of  these  led  them  along 
a  range  of  hills  and  into  a  fertile  little  valley, 
and  it  was  here  that  the  Virginians  finally  found 
a  resting-place.  It  was  here  in  this  vale  of  rest, 
folded  between  these  quiet  hills,  that  the  village 
of  Oldfield  grew  out  of  that  settlement,  and  here 
that  it  stands  to-day  scarcely  altered  from  its 
beginning.  Over  the  hills  —  there  on  the  east 
where  tender  green  of  the  crowning  trees  melts 
into  the  tenderer  blue  of  the  arching  clouds  — 
there  still  lies  the  untouched  strip  of  broad 
brown  earth,  which  the  people  of  to-day  call  the 
Wilderness  Road,  just  as  those  wandering  Vir 
ginians  called  it  when  they  first  found  it. 

ii 


Oldfield 

The  forest  crowded  close  to  the  valley,  but 
the  sun  shone  bright  where  the  giant  trees 
stood  farther  apart.  Then  the  skies  of  Ken 
tucky  were  as  blue  as  the  skies  of  Italy,  just 
as  they  are  now,  so  that  the  sunshine  and  the 
peace  of  the  spot,  and  the  pure  air  of  the 
wooded  hills,  gave  the  wayfarers  heart  to  be 
lieve  themselves  safe  from  the  terrors  of  the 
Ohio.  The  homes  which  they  built  were  all 
humble  enough,  the  merest  cabins  of  rough 
logs,  since  they  had  nothing  else  wherewith  to 
build.  Major  BramwelFs  house  was  no  better 
than  the  rest.  Like  most  of  the  settlers'  cabins 
it  had  two  low,  large  rooms  with  a  closed  pas 
sage  between  and  a  loft  above.  But  it  is  the 
mistress  who  makes  the  real  home,  —  wherever 
reared ;  the  mere  building  of  it  has  little  to  do 
with  its  making.  And  the  softest  little  woman, 
who  is  neither  very  brilliant  nor  very  wise,  can 
work  miracles  for  her  husband  and  her  children, 
no  matter  where  her  wings  may  rest  upon  the 
earth.  This  one,  softer  and  less  wise  than  many, 
not  only  made  a  real  home  of  perfect  refinement 
out  of  that  log  hut  in  the  wilderness,  but  she 
reared  her  daughters  —  amongst  white  men 
rougher  than  the  wild  beasts,  and  near  red  men 
infinitely  fiercer  —  as  gently  as  any  royal  prin 
cesses  were  ever  trained  in  any  old  palace  for 
the  gracing  of  courts. 

It  was  easy  enough  to  train  Miss  Judy,  whose 
nature  responded  to  exquisiteness  as  an  aeolian 
harp  responds  to  the  breeze.  Miss  Sophia  was 
different,  but  the  little  mother  did  not  live  long 

12 


The  Little  Sisters 

enough  to  find  it  out.  Perhaps  no  true  mother 
ever  lives  long  enough  to  find  anything  lacking 
in  her  child.  Miss  Sophia  was  standing  on 
the  threshold  of  womanhood,  and  Miss  Judy 
had  barely  crossed  it,  when  the  little  mother 
died,  worn  out  by  hardship  and  broken-hearted 
by  exile,  but  cheerful  and  uncomplaining  to  the 
last,  as  such  mothers  always  are. 

Is  it  not  amazing  that  a  small,  soft  woman 
can  leave  such  a  large,  hard  void  in  the  world  ? 
Is  it  not  bewildering  to  learn,  as  most  of  us  do, 
sooner  or  later,  that  those  whom  we  have  always 
believed  we  were  taking  care  of,  were  really 
stronger  than  ourselves,  and  that  we  have  always 
leaned  on  them.  The  very  foundations  of  life 
seem  falling  away,  when  the  truth  first  comes 
home  to  the  heart.  No  one  knew  what  Major 
B  ram  well  felt  or  thought  when  the  gentle  wife 
who  had  yielded  in  everything  first  left  him  to 
stand  alone.  He  was  naturally  a  silent,  re 
served  man,  and  misfortune  had  embittered 
him.  Within  the  year  following  her  death  he 
returned  to  Virginia  for  a  visit,  apparently 
unable  to  endure  the  exile  without  her.  His 
daughters  were  lonely  too,  but  they  were  glad 
to  have  him  go.  That  is,  Miss  Judy  was  glad, 
and  Miss  Sophia  was  always  pleased  with  any 
thing  that  pleased  Miss  Judy.  They  were  still 
content,  believing  him  to  be  happier,  when  the 
visit  went  on  into  the  second  year,  and  even 
into  the  third.  But  as  the  fourth  and  the  fifth 
passed,  they  grew  anxious,  and  the  neighbors 
wondered,  and  gradually  began  to  shake  their 


Oldfield 

heads.  News  travelled  slowly  over  the  Alle- 
ghanies  even  yet,  but  it  was  whispered  at  last 
that  the  major  would  never  come  back,  —  that 
he  could  not,  —  because  he  had  been  arrested 
for  old  debts  left  unpaid  when  he  came  to  Ken 
tucky,  and  that  he  was  thus  held  "  within 
prison  bounds." 

The  Oldfield  people  could  never  tell  whether 
the  sisters  were  aware  of  the  truth.  The  neigh 
bors  noticed  that  as  the  years  went  by  Miss 
Judy  said  less  and  less  about  his  coming  back, 
though  she  spoke  of  him  as  often  and  as  proudly 
as  ever,  and  that  Miss  Sophia,  who  never  had 
much  to  say  about  anything,  now  rarely  men 
tioned  her  father  at  all.  They  heard  from  him, 
however,  at  long  intervals.  The  neighbors  were 
sure  of  so  much  concerning  the  major,  by 
reason  of  Miss  Judy's  being  sometimes  com 
pelled  to  borrow  the  two  bits  to  pay  the  post 
age  on  the  letter.  Nothing  else  ever  forced 
her  to  borrow,  though  she  had  not  a  penny  to 
call  her  own  for  weeks  together,  and  Miss 
Sophia  —  poor  soul  —  never  had  one.  Every 
body  in  Oldfield  knew  when  anybody  got  a 
letter.  The  stage  carrying  the  mail  came  twice 
a  week.  The  postmaster,  who  was  also  a  tailor, 
always  locked  the  door  of  his  little  shop  as  soon 
as  he  had  taken  the  mail-baa:  inside.  He  could 

fj 

not  read  writing  very  readily,  and  he  did  not 
wish  to  be  hurried.  The  villagers  fumed  out 
side  as  they  looked  through  the  one  smoky, 
broken  window,  and  saw  him  deliberately  spell 
ing  out  his  own  letters,  sitting  down  with  his 


The  Little  Sisters 

feet  on  the  stove.  In  the  winter  when  the  days 
were  short,  and  it  began  to  grow  dark  early, 
they  used  to  stuff  something  into  the  stovepipe 
which  came  out  of  a  broken  pane,  so  that  the 
smoke  soon  compelled  him  to  open  the  door. 
In  the  summer  the  heat  prevented  the  post 
master's  keeping  the  door  closed  for  any  great 
length  of  time ;  but  no  matter  what  the  season 
most  of  the  Oldfield  people  were  waiting  when 
the  mail  came ;  consequently,  everybody  knew 
what  everybody  else  received.  And  then  Miss 
Judy  used  to  give  out  kind  messages  to  the 
neighbors  from  her  father's  letters;  messages 
which  did  not  sound  at  all  like  the  major.  But 
Miss  Judy  was  wholly  unconscious  that  her  own 
sweetness  colored  whatever  it  may  have  been 
that  her  father  had  really  written.  She  was 
as  unconscious  of  this  as  of  any  reason  that 
she  herself  might  have  had  for  growing  sour, 
as  her  lovely  youth  faded,  neglected  like  the 
wild  flowers  blooming  unseen  in  the  shadowy 
woods. 

The  quiet  lives  of  the  little  sisters  thus  went 
on  uneventfully  from  youth  to  maturity.  They 
were  as  utterly  alone,  so  far  as  association  with 
their  own  class  was  concerned,  as  if  they  had 
lived  on  a  desert  island.  Only  the  occasional 
letter  from  their  father  marked  the  passing  of 
the  years.  They  were  sheltered  by  the  old  log 
house,  and  they  subsisted  somehow  on  what 
grew  from  its  bit  of  ground.  It  was  the  same 
now  that  it  had  always  been  ;  it  was  still  the 
same,  except  that  the  little  sisters  had  passed 


Oldfield 

unawares    into  middle  age,  when    they  heard 
that  their  father  was  dead. 

No  one  ever  knew  whether  the  daughters 
were  told  the  whole  sad  truth :  that  this  gallant 
old  soldier  of  the  Revolution,  who  had  done 
much  for  the  winning  of  Independence,  had 
died  in  prison  bounds  for  debts  which  he  was 
never  able  to  pay.  Miss  Judy's  beautiful  eyes 
were  dim  with  weeping  for  a  long  time.  Miss 
Sophia  was  sad  for  many  months  through  sym 
pathy  with  her  sister's  grief.  Miss  Judy  took 
the  purple  bow  off  Miss  Sophia's  cap  and  a 
blue  one  off  her  own  and  dyed  them  black. 
Their  Sunday  coats,  as  they  called  two  thread 
bare  bombazines,  were  black  already,  and  their 
everyday  coats  had  also  been  black  before  turn 
ing  brown.  So  that  those  two  poor  little  bits 
of  lutestring  ribbon  were  the  only  outward 
signs  of  new  bereavement. 


16 


II 

THE    OLDFIELD    PEOPLE 

LIVING  was  leisurely  down  in  the  Pennyroyal 
Region  of  those  old  days.  About  the  middle 
of  the  last  century,  some  twenty  years  after  the 
major's  death,  the  weeks  and  months  and  years 
went  by  so  quietly  that  his  daughters  grew  old 
without  knowing  it. 

No  one  indeed  ever  thought  of  Miss  Judy  as 
old.  Charm  so  purely  spiritual  as  hers  has 
never  any  age.  And  then  it  would  seem  as  if 
an  element  of  perpetual  youth  often  lingers  to 
/the  last  around  a  lovable  unmarried  woman  as 
it  rarely  does  around  the  married.  The  rose 
keeps  its  beauty  and  sweetness  longest  when 
left  to  fade  ungathered. 

Possibly  Miss  Judy  may  have  been  a  shade 
slighter  than  she  had  been  twenty  years  before, 
although  she  was  never  much  stouter  than  a 
willow  twig.  Her  hair  can  hardly  have  been 
whiter  than  it  had  been  ever  since  anybody 
could  remember,  and  it  was  just  as  curly,  too, 
notwithstanding  that  she  tried  harder  every 
day  to  brush  it  till  it  was  prim  and  smooth,  as 
she  thought  white  hair  should  be. 

Miss  Sophia  had  never  seemed  very  young, 

and  she  now  appeared  little  if  at  all  older.     Her 

dark    hair   never   whitened,    and    if    the    gray 

streaks  over  her  placid  temples  had  broadened 

c  17 


Oldfield 

slightly,  it  was  no  more  trouble  than  it  used  to 
be  to  reach  up  the  chimney  and  get  a  bit  of 
soot  on  the  tip  of  her  finger  —  while  Miss  Judy 
was  out  of  the  room  or  looking  the  other  way. 
It  was  an  innocent  artifice,  but  it  remained 
always  the  darkest  secret  between  the  sisters. 
And  this  was  probably  not  quite  so  dark  a 
secret  as  Miss  Sophia  supposed  it  to  be,  since 
she,  being  so  very  plump,  could  not  stand  on 
tiptoe  to  look  in  the  mirror,  as  Miss  Judy  did. 
Consequently,  it  was  perhaps  inevitable  that  the 
touching  up  intended  for  the  gray  streaks  over 
Miss  Sophia's  placid  temples,  sometimes  fell 
unawares  on  her  honest  little  cheeks,  or  her 
guileless  little  ears. 

Almost  unaltered  as  the  sisters  were,  their 
environment  was,  if  possible,  even  less  changed 
by  the  quiet  passing  of  the  uneventful  years. 
For  all  outward  changes,  this  March  morning 
on  which  Miss  Judy  looked  out  over  the  sleep 
ing  village  might  have  been  the  first  morning 
after  the  first  settlers  had  made  their  homes  in 
this  vale  of  peace.  The  folding  hills  were  yet 
covered  by  the  primeval  forest.  The  log 
houses  built  by  the  Virginians  still  straggled 
beside  a  single  thoroughfare.  The  highway, 
too,  was  the  same  buffalo  track  which  they 
had  followed  through  the  wilderness  —  just  as 
crooked  in  its  direction,  just  as  irregular  in  its 
width,  just  as  muddy  in  winter  and  dusty  in 
summer,  and  it  was  called  the  "  big  road  "  now, 
just  as  it  had  been  in  the  beginning.  And  the 
sleepers  in  the  still  darkened  houses  were,  with 

18 


The  Oldfield  People 

scarcely  an  exception,  the  descendants  of  the 
sounder  sleepers  in  the  graveyard  on  the 
furthest,  highest  hilltop.  For  the  people  of 
that  far-off  Pennyroyal  Region  came  and  went 
in  those  old  days  only  with  the  coming  and  the 
going  of  the  generations. 

The  night's  shadows  still  lingered  among  the 
great,  black  tree-trunks  draping  the  leafless 
boughs,  but  the  sun's  radiant  lances  were  already 
lifting  the  white  mists  from  the  lowlands.  Soft 
sounds  coming  up  from  the  silent  fields  echoed 
the  gentle  awakening  of  flocks  and  herds,  deep 
ening,  as  the  light  brightened,  into  the  eternal 
matin  appeal  of  the  dumb  creature  to  human 
brotherhood.  The  birds  alone  were  all  wide 
awake  and  vividly  astir.  Flocks  of  plovers 
wheeled  white-winged  across  the  low-hung  sky. 
A  lonely  sparrow-hawk  swung  high  on  seem 
ingly  motionless  pinions.  There  were  redbirds, 
too,  and  bluebirds  and  blackbirds  —  pewees, 
thrushes,  vireos,  kingfishers  —  all  flocking  in 
with  the  red  and  gold  of  the  sunrise,  making 
the  dun  meadows  bright  and  melodious  with 
their  plumage  and  song.  Miss  Judy  saw  and 
heard  them  in  pleased  surprise.  She  could  not 
recall  having  seen  any  of  them  that  season, 
save  two  or  three  melancholy  robins,  drooping 
in  the  cold  rain  of  the  previous  day.  But  here 
they  all  \vere,  and  singing  as  if  they  had  no 
doubt  that  spring  had  come,  however  doubtful 
mere  mortals  mi^ht  be. 

O 

It  was  light  enough  now  to  see  the  tavern 
which  stood  on  the  edge  of  the  village.  The 

T9 


Oldfield 

sign  of  the  tavern,  a  big  rusty  bell  hung  in  a 
rough,  rickety  wooden  frame,  stood  clear  against 
the  gray  horizon,  dangling  its  rotting  rope,  which 
few  travellers  ever  came  to  pull. 

The  court-house  and  the  jail  faced  the  tavern 
from  the  other  side  of  the  big  road.  The 
court-house,  with  its  stately  little  pillars  and 
its  queer  little  cupola,  looked  like  some  small 
and  shabby  old  gentleman  in  a  very  high,  very 
tight  stock.  There  were  two  terms  of  circuit 
court,  lasting  about  a  month,  one  in  the  spring 
and  one  in  the  fall.  The  quarterly  and  the 
county  courts  convened  at  stated  periods.  The 
magistrate's  court,  which  was  also  in  the  court 
house,  was  held  usually  and  almost  exclusively 
as  the  peace  of  the  colored  population  might 
require.  Fortunately,  the  magistrate  was  re 
garded  with  a  good  deal  of  wholesome  awe, 
and  it  was  fortunate  that  he  lived  in  the  vil 
lage,  inasmuch  as  his  pacific  services  were 
likely  to  be  needed  at  irregular  and  unexpected 
times.  The  county  judge,  however,  found  it 
entirely  convenient  to  live  in  the  country,  on 
a  farm  near  Oldfield,  though  he  rode  into  the 
village  and  spent  an  hour  or  so  in  his  office 
nearly  every  day.  Judge  John  Stanley  of  the 
higher  court  lived  a  long  way  off,  quite  on  the 
other  side  of  the  district,  coming  and  going 
twice  a  year  with  the  convening  and  adjourn 
ment  of  the  spring  and  fall  terms.  He  had 
lived  in  Oldfield  when  a  young  man,  and  up  to 
the  time  that  a  terrible  thing  had  happened. 
He  was  not  to  blame,  yet  it  had  blighted  his 

20 


The  Oldfield  People 

whole  life ;  it  had  driven  him  in  horror  away 
from  the  place  which  he  had  loved.  It  was  a 
great  loss  to  him  to  be  separated  from  Miss 
Judy,  the  only  mother  he  had  known.  But  he 
used  to  return  to  Oldfield  now  and  then  until 
another  misfortune  made  the  place  forever  un 
endurable  to  him.  After  this  only  the  drag  of 
his  duty  and  his  fondness  for  Miss  Judy  ever 
brought  him  back,  and  he  went  away  again  as 
soon  as  he  could.  He  always  called  upon  her 
when  he  came,  and  always  went  to  bid  her 
good-by  before  going  away  ;  but  he  visited  no 
one  else  and  knew  nothing  of  the  village  out- 

O  O 

side  the  strict  line  of  his  official  duties. 

Adjoining  the  court-house  was  the  county 
jail,  a  tumble-down  pile  of  mossy  brick.  Only 
the  bars  across  the  window  indicated  the  char 
acter  of  the  building.  A  prisoner  was  occa 
sionally  enterprising  enough  to  pull  out  the 
bars,  but  they  were  always  put  in  again  sooner 
or  later.  There  were  two  rooms,  one  above 
and  one  below,  with  a  movable  ladder  between. 
When,  at  long  and  rare  intervals  a  stranger  was 
brought  to  the  jail  as  a  prisoner,  he  was  put  in 
the  upper  room  and  —  as  an  extreme  measure 
of  precaution  —  the  ladder  was  taken  away  dur 
ing  the  night.  Both  the  rooms  were  apt  to  be 
chilly  in  cold  weather  on  account  of  the  broken 
window-panes,  yet  the  jail  was  on  the  whole 
more  comfortable  than  many  of  the  cabins  in 
which  the  negroes  lived,  and  any  one  —  no 
matter  what  the  color  of  his  skin  —  can  endure 
a  good  deal  of  cold  without  great  discomfort, 

21 


Oldfield 

when  abundantly  and  richly  fed.  The  jailer, 
Colonel  Fielding,  and  his  family  never  thought 
of  taking  so  much  trouble  or  of  being  so  mean 
and  selfish  as  to  make  any  difference  in  th'e  food 
sent  to  the  jail  and  that  which  was  served  on 
their  own  table.  Now  and  then  in  the  winter 
the  turkey  and  the  pudding  would,  it  is  true, 
get  rather  cold  in  transit,  the  jail  and  the  jailer's 
residence  being  some  distance  apart;  but  the 
prisoners  did  not  mind  that.  They  used  to 
stand  at  the  windows  good-humoredly  hailing 
the  passers-by  to  kill  time ;  and  waiting  with 
such  patience  as  they  could  muster  for  the  com 
ing  of  the  good  dinner,  especially  when  they 
knew  that  there  was  more  "  quality  "  company 
than  usual  in  the  jailer's  house.  The  colonel, 
a  beautiful  old  man  —  tall,  stately,  clear-eyed, 
clean  and  upright  in  heart  and  mind  and  body 
—  was  a  gentleman  of  the  old  school  who  had 
never  earned  a  penny  in  all  the  days  of  his 
blameless  life.  Such  a  picture  as  he  was  to 
look  at,  with  his  long  silver  hair  curling  on  his 
shoulders  and  his  tall  erect  form  draped  in  the 
long  cloak  which  he  wore  like  a  Roman  toga ! 

"  By  the  o'wars ! "  he  used  to  declare,  "  the 
older  I  am  the  faster  and  thicker  my  hair  grows. 
As  for  my  cloak  —  it's  the  only  suitable  thing, 
sir,  for  a  gentleman's  wear." 

His  house  had  always  been  the  social  centre 
of  Oldfield.  When  his  friends  elected  him  to 
the  office  of  jailer,  deeming  that  the  best  and 
easiest  way  of  providing  for  him,  since  it  was 
the  nearest  to  a  sinecure  afforded  by  county 


The  Oldfield  People 

politics,  his  family  became  still  more  active 
leaders  of  society.  In  those  good  old  days  of  the 
Pennyroyal  Region,  a  gentleman  of  birth  and 
breeding  might  engage  in  any  honest  avocation, 
without  the  slightest  injury  to  his  social  posi 
tion.  The  only  difference  that  the  colonel's 
election  to  the  office  of  jailer  made  to  his  family 
and  his  neighbors  was,  that  the  salary  enabled 
him  to  indulge  his  hospitable  and  generous  in 
clinations  more  fully.  The  salary  was  small,  to 
be  sure,  but  it  was  more  than  he  had  ever  had 
before.  About  this  time,  too,  the  colonel's  five 
beautiful  daughters  —  all  famous  beauties  — 
were  in  the  perfection  of  bloom,  and  none  of 
them  had  yet  married,  thus  beginning  the  break 
ing  up  of  the  happy  home.  Such  dinners,  such 
suppers,  such  dances  as  there  were  in  that  plain 
old  house  !  The  colonel's  handsome,  indolent, 
sweet-tempered  wife  used  to  say  that  they  were 
always  ready  for  company,  because  they  had 
the  best  they  could  get  every  day.  Usually 
there  was  not  the  slightest  conflict  between  the 
colonel's  large  social  obligations  and  his  small 
official  duties.  On  the  contrary,  the  more  fine 
dinners  and  suppers  he  gave  the  higher  the 
prisoners  lived,  and  the  happier  everybody  was. 
In  fact,  the  colored  vagrant  who  managed  to  get 
into  the  jail  when  winter  was  near  —  when 
there  were  no  vegetables  in  anybody's  garden, 
no  fruit  in  anybody's  orchard,  no  green  corn  in 
anybody's  field  —  was  regarded  by  his  fellows 
as  very  fortunate  indeed. 

It  chanced,  however,  that  a  wandering  stranger 

23 


Oldfield 

was  one  day  locked  in  among  the  prisoners  who 
were  otherwise  all  home-folks.  On  that  very 
evening  the  Fielding  girls  were  giving  a  grand 
ball  and  supper,  to  which  the  whole  fashion  of 
the  county  was  invited.  The  prisoners,  with 
the  exception  of  the  stranger,  were  as  deeply 
interested  in  what  they  saw  and  heard  of  the 
great  stir  of  preparation  as  the  guests  could 
possibly  have  been.  The  stranger  probably 
knew  nothing  of  his  companions'  glowing  and 
confident  expectation  of  a  generous  share  of  the 
feast.  If  they  told  him  anything  of  the  feasting 
which  the  next  day  was  sure  to  bring,  he  either 
did  not  believe  it,  naturally  enough  —  having 
had  most  likely  some  experience  with  jails 
and  jailers  —  or  he  preferred  liberty  to  luxury. 
At  all  events  on  that  eventful  evening  the  colo 
nel,  whose  mind  was  full  of  the  ball,  incidentally 
forgot  to  lock  the  door  of  the  jail.  The  strange 
prisoner  had,  therefore,  nothing  to  do  but  to 
open  the  door  as  soon  as  the  jailer's  back  was 
turned ;  and  this  he  did  at  once,  disappearing 
in  the  darkness,  never  to  be  seen  or  heard  of 
again.  The  other  prisoners  had  tried  to  pre 
vent  his  going,  and  they  now  did  their  utmost 
to  give  the  alarm.  They  hallooed  long  and 
loud  at  the  top  of  their  strong  lungs.  But  the 
wind  was  blowing  hard  in  the  wrong  direction, 
the  jail  was  too  far  from  the  house,  and  they 
could  not  make  themselves  heard  above  the 
music  and  dancing  and  laughter  and  drink 
ing  of  toasts.  Finally  one  of  them,  who  was 
a  sort  of  leader  because  he  wintered  regularly 

24 


The  Oldfield  People 

in  the  jail,  offered  to  go  to  the  colonel's  house 
in  order  to  let  him  know  what  had  occurred. 
And  he  did  go  —  willingly  too  —  although  the 
night  was  very  cold  and  very  dark,  and  the  mud 
so  deep  that  the  very  bottom  seemed  to  have 
dropped  out  of  the  big  road.  The  colonel  him 
self  with  his  youngest  daughter  was  leading  the 
Virginia  reel,  and  just  going  down  the  middle  to 
the  tune  of  Old  Dan  Tucker ;  so  that  the  bearer 
of  the  evil  tidings  had  to  wait  a  few  moments 
looking  in  on  the  ball  before  he  found  a  chance 
to  tell  his  story.  It  was  a  cruel  blow  to  come 
at  such  a  time,  and  the  colonel  felt  it  sorely. 
The  prisoner  reported  to  his  companions,  after 
his  return  alone  to  the  jail,  that  he  thought 
"  Marse  Joe  was  about  to  swear "  then  and 
there.  It  was  in  vain  that  the  colonel's  guests 
hastened  to  reassure  him ;  to  tell  him  that  it 
would  be  a  great  saving  to  the  county  —  so  all 
the  gentlemen  said  —  if  every  one  of  the  lazy 
black  rascals  could  be  induced  to  run  away. 
But  the  colonel  felt  the  wound  to  his  pride.  It 
was  a  matter  touching  his  honor.  And  finally, 
finding  him  inflexible  in  his  determination  to 
do  his  duty  under  the  circumstances,  the  men 
present  offered  —  almost  to  a  man  —  to  go  with 
him  when  he  went  to  search  for  the  fugitive ; 
and  they  kept  their  word  on  the  following  day 
about  noon  when  the  sun  was  warmest,  just  to 
please  the  colonel,  although  they  knew  before 
hand  how  futile  the  pursuit  would  be  with  vast 
canebrakes  near  by  and  the  Cypress  Swamp  just 
beyond  the  hills. 

25 


Oldfield 

That  memorable  night  of  the  ball  was  long, 
long  past  when  this  March  morning  dawned. 
The  colonel  was  very  old  now  and  very  feeble, 
with  dimmed  memories  and  utterly  alone.  He 
had  lost  his  wife  years  before.  His  five  beautiful 
daughters  were  married  and  gone.  Alice,  the 
most  beautiful  of  all,  the  youngest,  the  brightest, 
the  highest  spirited,  was  dead  after  the  wreck 
ing  of  her  young  life.  The  old  man  had  aged 
and  failed  rapidly  since  Alice's  death.  He,  who 
used  to  be  so  cheerful,  sat  brooding  at  first, 
turning  his  aching  memories  this  way  and  that 
way,  trying  to  see  whether  he  might  not  have 
done  something  to  prevent  the  soft-hearted 
child  from  being  frightened  into  marrying  a 
man  whom  she  feared  almost  as  much  as  she 
disliked.  He  was  always  thinking  about  it  in 
those  early  days  after  her  death  in  the  bloom  of 
youth  and  beauty,  but  he  rarely  spoke  of  it  even 
then,  and  after  a  time  he  was  allowed  to  forget. 
Mercifully  memory  faded  as  weakness  increased. 
The  gentle,  unhappy  old  man  became  ere  long 
again  a  gentle,  happy  child,  and  yet  —  even  to 
the  last  —  when  aroused  to  glimmering  con 
sciousness  the  gallant  manner  of  the  courtly 
gentleman  of  the  old  school  came  back.  Miss 
Judy  thought  she  had  never  seen  so  polished  a 
bearing  as  the  colonel's  had  been  and  would  be 
—  in  a  way  —  as  long  as  he  lived.  She  won 
dered  uneasily  that  morning,  as  she  looked 
toward  his  house,  whether  the  servants  took 
good  care  of  him ;  and  she  made  up  her  mind 
to  be  more  watchful  of  him  herself.  She  was 

26 


The  Oldfield  People 

much   afraid   that   the    rain   might    make    his 
rheumatism  worse. 

Next  to  the  colonel's,  coming  down  the  big 
road,  was  the  Gordon  place,  the  largest  and 
best  kept  in  the  village.  The  house  was  a  low 
rambling  structure  of  logs,  whitewashed  inside 
and  out.  The  rooms  had  been  added  at  ran 
dom  as  suited  the  comfort  and  convenience  of 
the  family.  It  was  not  the  habit  of  the  Old- 
field  people  to  consider  appearances.  It  was 
not  the  habit  of  the  widow  Gordon  to  consider 
anything  but  her  own  wishes.  It  may  have 
been  on  account  of  this  imperiousness,  this 
open  and  scornful  disregard  of  everything  and 
everybody  except  herself  and  her  own  comfort, 
that  she  was  always  called  "  old  lady  Gordon  " 
behind  her  back.  She  lived  alone  with  a  large 
retinue  of  servants  in  the  comfortable  old  house, 
spending  her  days  in  a  state  of  mental  and  phys 
ical  semi-coma  from  over-eating  and  over-sleep 
ing,  using  both  like  lethean  drugs.  Miss  Judy 
alone  sometimes  thought  that  old  lady  Gordon 
so  used  them  and  pitied  her.  Old  lady  Gordon, 
who  had  a  strong  keen  sense  of  humor,  almost 
masculine  in  its  robustness,  would  have  laughed 
at  the  idea  of  Miss  Judy's  pity.  She  was  the 
richest  member  of  that  community  in  which  all 
living  was  simple,  and  in  which  the  extremes 
of  riches  and  poverty  were  not  known  as  they 
are  known  to  the  greater  world.  Most  of  the 
Oldfield  people  dwelt  contentedly  in  the  middle 
estate  which  the  wisest  of  men  prayed  for. 
None  was  poorer  than  Miss  Judy,  who  had 

27 


Oldfield 

only  a  pittance  of  a  pension,  the  old  house,  and 
the  scrap  of  earth ;  none,  that  is,  except  Sidney 
Wendall,  who,  although  she  owned  the  log  cabin 
which  sheltered  her  family  and  the  bit  of  garden 
lying  by  its  side,  had  not  a  penny  of  income  for 
the  support  of  her  three  children,  her  husband's 
brother,  and  herself.  Yet  Miss  Judy  managed 
to  provide  for  Miss  Sophia  —  and  herself  also 
as  an  afterthought ;  and  Sidney  provided  for 
her  family  without  difficulty,  though  in  both 
cases  a  steady,  strenuous  effort  was  required. 

Among  the  few  who  were  really  well-to-do, 
were  Tom  Watson  and  Anne  his  wife.  Their 
house,  facing  Miss  Judy's  across  the  big  road, 
was  rather  more  modern  than  the  rest  of  the 
Oldfield  houses,  and  it  was  better  furnished. 
And  yet  as  Miss  Judy  looked  at  its  closed 
blinds  she  sighed,  thinking  how  little  money 
had  to  do  with  happiness,  when  it  could  give 
no  relief  from  pain  of  mind  or  body.  More 
than  a  year  had  dragged  by  since  the  master 
of  that  darkened  household  had  been  brought 
home  after  the  accident  which  had  crushed  the 
great,  strong,  passionate,  undisciplined,  good- 
hearted  giant  into  a  helpless,  hopeless  paralytic 
—  as  the  lightning  fells  the  mighty  oak  in  full 
est  leaf.  The  mistress  of  the  stricken  home  had 
always  been  what  the  Oldfield  people  called  a 
"  still-tongued  "  woman,  and  she  was  now  become 
more  silent  than  ever.  The  house  had  never 
been  a  cheerful  one,  save  as  the  noisy  master 
blustered  in  and  out.  Now  it  was  sad  indeed : 
now  that  both  husband  and  wife  knew  that  he 

28 


The  Oldfield  People 

could  never  be  any  better,  never  otherwise  than 
he  was,  although  he  might  live  for  years. 

Miss  Judy  wondered  as  she  gazed,  whether 
Doctor  Alexander,  living  a  little  further  along 
the  big  road,  had  yet  told  Anne  the  whole 
truth.  After  a  moment  she  was  sure  that  he  had 
not.  He  was  the  kindest  of  bluff-spoken  men. 
And  what  would  be  the  use  —  since  neither 
Anne  nor  the  doctor  nor  the  powerof  the  whole 
world  of  sympathy  or  science  could  do  anything 
more?  She  was  glad  to  see  the  doctor's  curtains 
still  drawn.  He  needed  all  the  rest  he  could 
get;  he  was  always  overworked  in  his  practice 
for  twenty  miles  around.  And  Mrs.  Alexander, 
the  doctor's  wife,  was  one  of  the  rare  kind,  who 
are  always  ready  to  sleep  when  other  people  are 
sleepy  and  to  breakfast  when  other  people  are 
hungry:  a  much  rarer  kind,  as  even  Miss  Judy 
knew,  unworldly  as  she  was,  than  the  kind  who 
always  expect  others  to  be  sleepy  when  they 
wish  to  sleep  and  to  be  ready  to  eat  when 
they  are  hungry. 

In  the  unpainted,  tumble-down  house  next  to 
the  doctor's,  somebody  was  awake  and  stirring. 
Miss  Judy  guessed  it  to  be  Kitty  Mills,  and  she 
knew  it  was  more  than  likely  that  the  poor 
woman  had  not  been  in  bed  at  all.  It  was 
nothing  uncommon  for  old  man  Mills,  Kitty's 
father-in-law,  to  keep  her  busy  in  waiting  upon 
him  the  whole  night  through.  It  was  utterly 
impossible  for  Kitty,  or  anybody  else,  to  please 
him,  but  Kitty  never  seemed  to  mind  in  the 
least;  she  merely  laughed  and  tried  again  — 

29 


Oldfield 

over  and  over  with  untiring  kindness  and  un 
flagging  patience.  Miss  Judy  never  knew  quite 
what  to  make  of  Kitty  Mills,  though  she  had 
lived  just  across  the  big  road  from  her  through 
all  these  years.  Miss  Judy  could  understand 
submission  without  resistance  easily  enough ; 
she  had  submitted  to  a  good  many  hard  things 
herself,  without  a  murmur.  But  she  could  not 
comprehend  the  acceptance  of  unkindness  and 
injustice  and  ingratitude  and  endless  toil  and 
hardship  with  actual  hilarity,  as  Kitty  Mills  ac 
cepted  all  of  these  things,  day  in  and  day  out, 
year  after  year.  And  there  she  was  now  sing 
ing,  blithe  as  a  lark !  Well,  such  a  disposition 
as  Kitty's  was  a  good  gift,  Miss  Judy  thought 
almost  enviously,  as  though  her  own  disposition 
were  very  bad  indeed.  Then  she  began  to  re 
proach  herself  for  uncharitable  thoughts  of  old 
man  Mills's  daughters.  They  may  have  had 
their  reasons  for  bringing  their  father  to  Kitty's 
house  to  be  nursed  by  her,  instead  of  nursing 
him  themselves.  Perhaps  they  had  brought  him 
because  they  believed  Kitty  would  take  better 
care  of  him  than  they  could,  knowing  how  faith 
fully  she  had  nursed  their  mother  who  had  been 
unable  to  leave  her  bed  for  years,  and,  indeed, 
up  to  her  death,  only  a  few  months  before.  We 
cannot  look  into  one  another's  hearts,  so  Miss 
Judy  reminded  herself.  No  doubt  we  should 
judge  more  justly  if  we  could.  And  Sam, 
Kitty's  husband,  was  really  a  good,  kind  man, 
and  maybe  he  would  work  sometimes  were  it 
not  for  the  misery  in  his  back,  which  always 

30 


The  Oldfield  People 

grew  worse  whenever  work  was  even  mentioned 
in  his  presence.  Still  Miss  Judy  could  not  see, 
try  as  she  might,  how  Kitty  Mills  could  laugh 
till  she  cried,  when  old  man  Mills  snatched 
up  the  dinner  which  she  had  cooked  on  a  hot 
day  and  flung  it  out  the  window — dishes  and 
all. 

Looking  farther  along  the  big  road,  Miss 
Judy  saw  that  the  Pettuses  also  were  awake  and 
stirring  about.  The  bachelor  brother  and  the 
maiden  sister  were  both  early  risers.  Mr.  Pettus 
kept  the  general  store,  and  he  liked  to  have  it 
open  and  ready  for  trade  when  the  farmers  tak 
ing  grain  and  tobacco  to  market  drove  the  big- 
wheeled  wagons  with  their  swaying  ox-teams 
through  the  village  on  the  way  to  the  river. 
Miss  Pettus  arose  with  the  first  chicken  that 
took  its  head  from  under  its  wing,  her  main  in 
terest  in  life  being  concentrated  in  the  poultry- 
yard.  She  always  held  that  any  one  having  to 
do  with  hens  must  be  up  before  the  sun ;  and 
she  used  to  tell  Miss  Judy  a  great  deal  about 
the  Individuality  of  Hens,  the  subject  with  which 
she  was  best  acquainted  and  upon  which  she  dis 
coursed  most  entertainingly  and  instructively. 
Miss  Judy  always  listened  with  much  interest 
and  entire  seriousness.  Gentle  Miss  Judy  had 
not  a  very  keen  sense  of  humor ;  it  is  doubtful 
if  any  really  sweet  woman  ever  had. 

"  The  folks  who  think  all  hens  are  alike  except 
the  difference  that  the  feathers  make  outside, 
don't  know  what  they  are  talking  about !  "  Miss 
Pettus  once  said,  in  her  excited  way.  "  Hens  are 

31 


Oldfield 

as  different  inside  as  folks  are.  Some  hens  are 
silly  and  some  have  got  plenty  of  sense,  only 
they're  stubborn.  There's  that  yellow-legged 
pullet  of  mine.  Skes  so  silly  that  she  is  just  as 
liable  to  lay  in  the  horse-trough  as  in  her  nice, 
clean  nest.  Every  blessed  morning,  rain  or  shine, 
unless  I'm  up  and  on  the  spot  before  she  can  get 
into  the  trough,  old  Baldy  eats  an  egg  with  his 
hay,  and  I'm  expecting  every  day  that  he'll  eat 
her.  And  there's  that  old  dorminica,  the  one 
that  Kitty  Mills  cheated  me  with  when  we 
swapped  hens  that  time.  Well,  the  old  dor 
minica  ain't  a  bit  silly.  She's  just  out  and  out 
contrary.  The  great,  lazy,  fat  thing !  Set  she 
wont  —  do  what  I  will!  And  Kitty  Mills 
knew  she  wouldn't  —  knew  it  just  as  well  when 
we  swapped  as  I  know  it  this  minute.  There's 
no  use  trying  to  persuade  me  that  she  didn't. 
It's  awful  aggravating,  because  the  dorminica's 
the  heaviest  hen  I've  got.  Well,  night  before 
last  I  made  up  my  mind  that  I'd  make  her  set, 
whether  she  wanted  to  or  not.  When  it  began 
to  get  dark  and  she  sauntered  off  to  go  to  roost, 
I  caught  her  and  put  her  down  on  a  nest  full  of 
fine,  fresh  eggs  —  set  her  down  real  firm  and 
determined,  like  that —  as  much  as  to  say  '  we'll 
see  whether  you  don't  stay  there,'  and  then  I 
turned  a  box  over  her  so  that  she  couldn't  get 
out  if  she  tried.  But  I  couldn't  help  feeling 
kind  of  uneasy,  with  fresh  eggs  gone  up  so 
high,  clear  to  tejxjcents  a  dozen.  The  next 
morning  at  break  o'  day,  cold  and  rainy  as  it 
was,  I  put  on  my  overshoes  and  threw  my 

32 


The  Oldneld  People 

shawl  over  my  head,  and  went  to  take  a  peep 
under  the  box.  And  there  —  you'll  hardly  be 
lieve  it,  Miss  Judy,  but  I  give  you  my  word  as  a 
member  of  the  Methodist  Episcopal  Church  — 
there  was  that  old  dorminica  a-standing  up  !  " 

Miss  Judy  had  said  at  the  time  what  a  shame 
it  was  to  waste  nice  eggs  so,  and  she  had  spoken 
with  sincere  feeling.  She  had  been  cherishing 
a  secret  hope  that  she  might  get  a  few  eggs 
from  Miss  Pettus  to  complete  a  setting  for 
Speckle.  Miss  Judy  had  saved  ten  eggs  with 
great  care,  keeping  them  wrapped  in  a  flannel 
petticoat  ;  but  Speckle,  the  docile  and  industri 
ous,  could  easily  cover  fifteen  and  was  quite 
willing  to  do  it.  Now,  Miss  Judy's  hope  was 
lost  through  the  dorminica's  contrariness.  She 
thought  about  this  again  with  a  pang  of  disap 
pointment,  as  she  heard  the  cackling  and  con 
fusion  going  on  in  the  Pettus  poultry-yard, 
which  told  the  whole  neighborhood  that  Miss 
Pettus  was  wide  awake  and  actively  pursuing 
her  chosen  walk  in  life. 

Sidney  Wendall,  the  widow,  was  another  early 
riser,  as  one  needs  be  when  earning  a  living 
for  a  whole  family  by  one's  wits.  Sidney's 
house,  the  poorest  and  smallest  of  all  the  village, 
was  the  last  at  that  end  of  the  big  road,  and 
stood  higher  than  the  others,  far  up  on  the  hill 
side.  As  Miss  Judy  looked  toward  it  that 
morning,  she  was  not  thinking  of  Sidney  but  of 
Doris,  her  daughter,  whom  Miss  Judy  loved  as 
her  own  child.  At  the  very  thought  of  Doris  a 
new  light  came  into  her  blue  eyes  and  a  lovelier 
D  33 


Oldfield 

flush  overspread  her  fair  cheeks.  She  stood 
still  for  a  moment,  gazing  wistfully,  waiting  and 
longing  for  the  far-off  glimpse  of  Doris,  which 
nearly  always  sweetened  the  beginning  of  the 
day.  On  that  wet  March  morning  there  was 
no  flutter  of  a  little  white  apron,  no  sign  of  a 
wafted  kiss.  Miss  Judy  signed  gently  as  her 
gaze  came  back  to  her  own  yard.  There  were 
two  japonica  bushes,  one  standing  on  either 
side  of  the  front  gate,  and  as  Miss  Judy  now 
glanced  at  them  she  was  startled  to  see  what 
seemed  to  be  a  roseate  mist  floating  among  the 
bare,  brown  branches,  still  dripping  and  shining 
with  the  night's  rain. 


34 


Ill 

PHASES    OF    VILLAGE    LIFE 

A  ROSY  mist  often  floated  between  Miss  Judy 
and  the  bare,  brown  things  of  life.  She  knew 
it,  realizing  fully  how  many  mistakes  she  made 
in  seldom  seeing  things  as  they  actually  were. 
She  had  never  been  able  to  trust  her  own  eyes, 
and  now  they  were  not  even  as  strong  as  they 
used  to  be,  although  they  were  as  blue  as  ever. 
The  japonica  bushes  were  only  a  few  paces  dis 
tant,  the  front  yard  being  but  the  merest  strip 
of  earth ;  yet  the  ground  was  very  wet,  and 
Miss  Judy  was  wearing  prunella  gaiters.  They 
were  the  only  shoes  she  had ;  they  were  also 
the  only  kind  she  had  ever  known  a  lady  to 
wear.  Shoes  made  of  leather,  however  fine, 
would  have  seemed  to  Miss  Judy — had  she 
known  anything  about  them  —  as  much  too 
heavy,  too  stiff,  and  altogether  too  clumsy  for 
the  delicate,  soundless  step  of  a  gentlewoman. 

Moving  out  on  the  sunken  stone  of  the  door 
step,  she  was  still  unable  to  tell  with  certainty 
whether  the  japonicas  were  actually  budding. 
She  stood  peering  helplessly,  almost  frowning 
in  her  effort  to  see.  It  was  really  important 
that  she  should  know  as  soon  as  possible.  The 
coming  of  spring  was  important  to  everybody 
in  the  Pennyroyal  Region,  where  every  man 
was  a  farmer  —  the  merchant,  the  lawyer,  the 

35 


Oldfield 

doctor,  and  even  the  minister ;  and  where  every 
woman  had  a  garden,  large  and  rich  like  old 
lady  Gordon's,  or  small  and  poor  as  Miss  Judy's 
was.  And  the  buds  of  the  japonica  were  the 
gay  little  heralds  of  the  spring,  coming  clad  all 
in  scarlet  satin,  while  the  rest  of  nature  wore 
dull  and  sombre  robes.  Flashing  out  from  their 
dark  hiding-places  at  the  first  touch  of  the  sun, 
the  sight  of  them  stirred  the  ladies  of  Oldfield 
as  nothing  else  ever  did.  The  men,  too,  always 
noticed  this  first  sign  of  spring's  approach.  But 
it  was  the  burning  of  the  tobacco-beds  on  the 
wooded  hillsides,  the  floating  of  long,  thin 
banners  of  pale  blue  smoke  across  a  wintry  sky, 
which  moved  the  men.  It  was  only  in  the  breasts 
of  the  gentle  gardeners  of  Oldfield  that  the 
bursting  forth  of  the  japonica  buds,  these  vivid 
points  of  flame,  always  fired  a  perennial  ambi 
tion.  For  the  housewife  who  could  send  a 
neighbor  the  earliest  cool,  green  lettuce,  or  the 
first  warm,  red  radishes  might  well  be  a  proud 
woman,  and  was  a  personage  to  be  looked  up 
to  and  to  be  envied  during  all  the  rest  of  the 
year.  And  was  it  not  rather  a  pretty  ambition 
and  even  a  laudable  one  ?  Have  not  most  of 
us  noted  pettier  ambitions  and  far  less  laudable 
ones  in  a  much  larger  world  ? 

Aside  from  this  public  and  universal  interest 
and  anxiety  concerning  gardening  time,  Miss 
Judy  had  good  private  reasons  for  wishing  to 
get  an  early  start.  Early  vegetables  were  more 
profitable  than  late  ones  in  Oldfield  as  elsewhere. 
Of  course  Miss  Judy  never  thought  of  selling 

36 


Phases  of  Village  Life 

any  of  the  things  that  grew  in  her  little  garden. 
She  would  have  been  shocked  at  the  suggestion. 
No  one  in  Oldfield  ever  sold  anything,  except 
Mr.  Pettus,  who  kept  the  general  store,  and  who 
sold  everything  that  the  Oldfield  people  needed. 
It  is  true  that  Miss  Judy  had  a  regular  engage 
ment  with  Mr.  Pettus  to  exchange  green  stuff 
for  sugar  or  knitting  materials,  or  a  yard  of 
white  muslin  to  make  Miss  Sophia  a  tucker, 
or  a  bit  of  net  to  freshen  her  cap,  and  occasion 
ally  even  some  trifle  for  herself.  That,  how 
ever,  was  an  entirely  different  matter  from 
vulgarly  selling  things.  Mr.  Pettus  understood 
the  difference  quite  as  clearly  as  Miss  Judy  did, 
and  he  always  took  the  greatest  pains  to  show 
his  appreciation  of  her  thoughtful  condescen 
sion  in  letting  him  have  the  vegetables.  He 
was  always  most  generous  too  in  these  delicate 
and  complicated  transactions.  It  upset  Miss 
Judy  somewhat,  at  first,  to  find  him  willing  to 
give  more  sugar  for  onions  than  for  genteeler 
vegetables,  especially  in  the  spring.  But  it  was 
never  hard  for  Miss  Judy  to  give  up  when  no 
real  principle  was  involved ;  and  necessity  makes 
most  of  us  do  certain  things  which  we  dis 
approve  of.  So  that,  sighing  gently,  Miss  Judy 
squeezed  her  heart's-ease  and  mignonette  into 
a  smaller  space,  and  planted  more  onion-sets. 

She  was  thinking  about  those  onion-sets  as 
she  looked  at  the  japonica  bushes,  trying  to  see 
whether  they  were  actually  budding.  She  could 
not,  as  a  lady,  admit  even  to  herself  how  largely 
her  sister's  living  depended  upon  the  ignoble 

37 


Oldfield 

bulbs  even  more  than  upon  the  refined  produce 
of  the  little  garden.  Her  own  living  also  de 
pended  upon  this  bit  of  earth;  but  that.;- >s  not 
nearly  so  important,  from  her  point  of  view. 
Miss  Sophia  came  first  in  everything,  even  in 
the  annual  consideration  of  the  problem  of  the 
onion-sets.  Miss  Judy,  thinking  that  the  house 
in  which  gentlewomen  lived  should  never  smell 
of  anything  but  dried  rose  leaves,  asked  Miss 
Sophia  if  she  did  not  think  the  same.  Miss 
Sophia,  who  had  thought  nothing  about  it,  and 
who  objected  to  the  odor  of  onions  only  be 
cause  it  made  her  very  hungry,  answered 
"  Just  so,  sister  Judy,"  very  promptly  and  very 
decisively,  as  she  always  answered  everything 
that  Miss  Judy  said.  Consequently  the  tidy 
calico  bag  containing  the  onion-sets  was  ban 
ished  to  the  kitchen  for  the  winter,  to  be 
come  a  source  of  secret  uneasiness  to  Miss 
Judy  the  whole  season  through.  Merica,  the 
cook,  was  not  so  dependable  a  personage  as 
Miss  Judy  could  have  wished  her  to  be.  There 
was  indeed  something  disturbingly  uncertain  in 
her  very  name.  Miss  Judy  always  thought  it 
must  be  A-merica,  but  Merica  always  stoutly 
insisted  that  her  whole  real  true  name  was 
Mericus-Ves- Pat-rick -One -of -the -Earliest- Set- 
tlers-of- Kentucky,  and  Miss  Judy  gave  up  all 
further  discussion  of  the  subject  simply  because 
she  was  overwhelmed,  not  because  she  was 
convinced. 

Remembering  that  the  onion-sets  had  been 
quite  safe  when  she  last  looked  at  them,  Miss 

38 


Phases  of  Village  Life 

Judy  felt  a  renewed  anxiety  to  know  certainly 
whether  the  japonicas  were  budding.  And  the 
.Dnly  way  to  know  was  to  get  her  father's  far- 
off  spectacles.  These  were  privately  used  by 
both  the  little  sisters  upon  great  emergencies, 
such  as  this  was.  But  they  had  never  been 
put  on  by  either  in  public  ;  and  Miss  Judy  was 
much  startled  at  the  thought  of  putting  them 
on  at  the  front  door.  Moreover,  they  were 
always  kept  carefully  hidden  in  the  left-hand 
corner,  at  the  very  back  of  the  top  drawer  of 
the  chest  of  drawers  in  the  little  sisters'  room, 
and  Miss  Sophia  was  still  asleep.  Miss  Judy 
could  tell  by  the  way  the  sun  touched  the 
sunken  stone  of  the  doorstep  that  it  wanted 
two  or  three  minutes  of  the  time  when  she 
always  rolled  the  cannon-ball  which  held  the 
door  open,  as  a  polite  hint  to  Miss  Sophia  to 
get  up.  Under  the  unusual  circumstances, 
however,  Miss  Judy  felt  justified  in  rolling  it 
at  once.  It  was  a  big  ball  weighing  twenty-five 
pounds,  and  it  was  a  good  deal  battered  by 
distinguished  service.  It  had  come  indeed 
from  the  battle-field  at  New  Orleans,  and  there 
was  a  tradition  that  it  was  the  identical  cannon- 
ball  which  had  killed  the  British  general.  Miss 
Judy,  however,  could  never  be  brought  to  enter 
tain  any  such  dreadful  belief.  She  was  quite 
content  and  very,  very  proud  to  know  beyond  a 
shadow  of  a  doubt  that  many  of  those  gallant 
Kentuckians  who  rushed  in  at  the  last  desper 
ate  moment — travel-worn,  starving,  ragged,  and 
armed  only  with  hunters'  rifles  —  to  do  such 

39 


Oldfield 

valiant  service  in  turning  the  tide  of  that  mo 
mentous  battle,  were  true  sons  of  the  Penny 
royal  Region.  Miss  Judy  was  aware  of  the 
strange  and  unaccountable  misstatement  con 
cerning  the  conduct  of  the  Kentuckians,  made 
by  General  Jackson  in  his  report  of  the  battle. 
But  she  was  also  aware  that  the  general  —  who 
was  not  as  a  rule  very  quick  to  take  things  back 
—  had  corrected  that  misstatement  so  promptly 
and  so  thoroughly,  that  it  had  not  been  neces 
sary  for  General  Adair  to  ride  from  Kentucky 
to  New  Orleans  to  fight  a  duel  with  him  about 
the  slander,  although  that  gallant  Kentuckian 
was  all  ready  and  eager  to  go. 

And  was  there  not  also  that  remarkable 
song,  celebrating  the  part  taken  by  "  The 
Hunters  of  Kentucky"  in  the  battle  of  New 
Orleans  ?  Everybody  was  singing  it  when  Miss 
Judy  was  a  girl ;  and  although  she  could  not  sing 
she  had  often  hummed  the  ringing  chorus :  — 

"  Oh,  dear  Kentucky, 
The  Hunters  of  Kentucky ; 
Dear  old  Kentucky, 
The  Hunters  of  Kentucky." 

And  she  had  even  repeated  the  five  stirring 
verses  without  making  a  single  mistake :  — 

"  You've  read  I  reckon,  in  the  prints, 

How  Pakenham  attempted 
To  make  Old  Hickory  wince 

But  soon  his  scheme  repented  j 
For  we  with  rifles  ready  cocked, 
Thought  such  occasion  lucky  ; 
And  soon  around  our  general  flocked 
The  Hunters  of  Kentucky. 
40 


Phases  of  Village  Life 

"  The  British  felt  so  very  sure 

The  battle  they  would  win  it, 
Americans  could  not  endure 

The  battle  not  a  minute ; 
And  Pakenham  he  made  his  brag 

If  he  in  fight  was  lucky, 
He'd  have  the  girls  and  cotton  bags 

In  spite  of  old  Kentucky. 

"  But  Jackson  he  was  wide  awake 

And  not  scared  at  trifles, 
For  well  he  knew  what  aim  to  take 

With  our  Kentucky  rifles  ; 
He  led  us  to  the  cypress  swamp, 

The  ground  was  low  and  mucky, 
There  stood  John  Bull  in  martial  pomp 

And  here  was  old  Kentucky. 

"  A  bank  was  raised  to  hide  our  breast  — 

Not  that  we  thought  of  dying  — 
But  we  liked  firing  from  a  rest 

Unless  the  game  was  flying ; 
Behind  it  stood  our  little  force, 

None  wished  that  it  were  greater, 
For  every  man  was  half  a  horse 

And  half  an  alligator. 

"They  did  not  our  patience  tire, 

Before  they  showed  their  faces, 
We  did  not  choose  to  waste  our  fire, 

So  snugly  kept  our  places ; 
But  when  no  more  we  saw  them  blink 

We  thought  it  time  to  stop  'em  — 
It  would  have  done  you  good,  I  think, 

To  see  Kentucky  drop  'em." 

Then  gentle  Miss  Judy,  repeating  these  lines, 
used  to  grow  almost  bloodthirsty  in  trying  to 
repeat  the  things  which  she  had  heard  her  father 

41 


Oldfield 

say  about  this,  —  the  part  played  by  the  hunters 
of  Kentucky  at  the  battle  of  New  Orleans,  —  as 
having  been  the  first  recognition  of  marksman 
ship  in  warfare.  Miss  Judy  had  no  clear  under 
standing  of  what  her  father  had  meant,  but 
she  usually  repeated  what  he  had  said  about 
the  sharpshooting  of  the  hunters  whenever  she 
spoke  of  the  battle.  She  thrilled  with  patriotism 
every  time  she  touched  the  cannon-ball.  It  was 
so  big  that  both  her  little  hands  were  required 
to  roll  it  into  the  hollow  which  it  had  worn  in 
the  floor  of  the  passage. 

Miss  Sophia  obeyed  the  solemn  rumble  of 
the  cannon-ball  as  she  always  obeyed  every 
thing  that  she  understood — docile  little  soul. 
She  was  almost  as  slow  of  mind  as  of  body. 
A  round,  heavy,  dark,  uninteresting  old  woman, 
utterly  unlike  her  sister,  except  in  gentleness 
and  goodness.  On  Miss  Sophia's  side  of  the 
bed  were  three  stout  steps,  forming  a  sort  of 
dwarf  stairway,  and  down  this  she  now  came 
slowly,  backwards  and  in  perfect  safety.  But 
Miss  Sophia's  getting  to  the  floor  was  yet  a 
long  way  from  being  ready  for  breakfast.  It 
was  hard  to  see  how  so  small  a  body,  so  simply 
clothed,  could  get  into  such  an  intricate  tangle 
of  strings  and  hooks  and  buttons  on  every  morn 
ing  of  her  life.  Miss  Judy's  sweet  patience  never 
wavered.  She  never  knew  that  she  was  called 
upon  to  exercise  any  toward  Miss  Sophia.  The 
possibility  of  hurrying  Miss  Sophia  did  not  enter 
her  mind  even  on  that  urgent  occasion,  when 
her  need  of  the  far-off  spectacles  made  it  un- 

42 


Phases  of  Village  Life 

commonly  hard  to  wait.  Finally,  there  being 
no  indication  of  Miss  Sophia's  progress,  other 
than  the  subdued  sounds  of  the  struggle  through 
which  she  was  passing,  Miss  Judy  timidly  ap 
proached  the  door  of  the  bedroom.  It  was 
open,  but  she  delicately  turned  her  head  away 
as  she  tapped  upon  it  to  attract  Miss  Sophia's 
attention,  before  asking  permission  to  come  in. 
Miss  Sophia  invited  her  to  enter,  giving  the 
permission  as  formally  as  Miss  Judy  had  asked 
it.  Miss  Judy  apologized  as  she  accepted  the 
invitation,  saying  that  she  hoped  Miss  Sophia 
would  pardon  her  for  keeping  her  back  turned, 
which  she  was  very,  very  careful  to  continue 
to  do.  She  did  not  say  what  it  was  that  she 
wanted  to  get  out  of  the  top  drawer.  The  far- 
off  spectacles  were  rarely  mentioned  between 
the  sisters,  and  Miss  Sophia  never  questioned 
anything  that  her  sister  wished  to  do. 

Still  scrupulously  averting  her  gaze,  Miss 
Judy  found  what  she  wanted,  and  sidled  softly 
from  the  room,  thanking  Miss  Sophia  and 
holding  the  spectacles  down  at  her  side,  hid 
den  in  the  folds  of  her  skirt.  Stepping  out  on 
the  door-stone,  she  looked  cautiously  up  and 
down  the  big  road.  It  was  still  deserted,  not 
a  human  being  was  in  sight.  Only  a  solitary 
cow  went  soberly  past,  with  her  bell  clanging 
not  unmusically  on  the  stillness.  Nevertheless, 
Miss  Judy  gave  another  glance  of  precaution, 
surveying  the  highway  from  end  to  end  from 
the  tavern  on  the  north  to  Sidney  Wendall's 
on  the  south.  As  the  little  lady's  eyes  rested 

43 


Oldfield 

for  a  moment  upon  the  house  on  the  hillside, 
a  girl  came  out  as  though  the  wistful  gaze  had 
drawn  her  forth.  Miss  Judy's  blue  eyes  could 
barely  make  out  the  slender  young  figure  stand 
ing  in  the  dazzling  sunlight ;  but  she  knew  that 
it  was  Doris,  and  she  did  not  need  the  sight  of 
her  sweet  old  eyes  to  see  the  wafting  of  the  kiss 
which  the  girl  threw.  Miss  Judy's  own  little 
hands  flew  up  to  throw  two  kisses  in  return. 
She  straightway  forgot  all  about  the  spectacles. 
She  no  longer  cared  how  large  the  huge  frames 
might  look  on  her  small  face,  nor  how  old  they 
might  make  her  appear. 

It  was  always  so.  At  the  sight  of  Doris, 
Miss  Judy  always  ceased  to  be  an  old  maid  and 
became  a  young  mother.  For  there  is  a  mother 
hood  of  the  spirit  as  well  as  the  motherhood  of 
the  flesh,  and  the  one  may  be  truer  than  the 
other. 


44 


IV 

THE    CHILD    OF    MISS    JUDY'S    HEART 

IT  is  among  the  sad  things  of  many  good 
lives,  that  those  who  love  each  other  most  often 
understand  each  other  least. 

No  mother  was  ever  truer  than  Sidney  Wen- 
dall,  so  far  as  her  light  led.  None  ever  tried 
harder  to  do  her  whole  duty  by  her  children, 
and  none,  perhaps,  could  have  come  nearer 
doing  it  by  Billy  and  Kate,  given  no  better 
opportunities  than  Sidney  had. 

It  was  Doris,  the  eldest  child,  and  the  one 
whom  she  loved  best  and  was  proudest  of  — 
the  darling  of  her  heart,  the  very  apple  of  her 
eye  —  that  Sidney  never  knew  what  to  do  with. 
From  the  very  cradle  she  had  found  Doris  utterly 
unmanageable.  Not  that  the  child  was  unruly 
or  self-willed ;  she  was  ever  the  gentlest  and 
most  obedient  of  the  three  children.  It  was  only 
that  the  mother  and  the  child  could  not  under 
stand  one  another.  That  was  all ;  but  it  was 
enough  to  send  Sidney,  whom  few  difficulties 
daunted,  to  Miss  Judy,  almost  in  tears  and  quite 
in  despair,  while  Doris  was  hardly  beyond  baby 
hood. 

"  You  can  always  tell  a  body  in  trouble  what 
to  do,"  she  appealed  to  Miss  Judy.  "  Maybe 
you  can  even  tell  me  what  to  do  with  that  child. 
I  know  how  rough  I  am,  but  I  don't  know  how 

45 


Oldfield 

to  help  it.  I'm  bound  to  bounce  around  and 
make  a  noise.  I  don't  know  any  other  way  of 
getting  along.  And  then  there  are  Billy  and 
Kate.  They  won't  do  a  thing  they're  told  un 
less  they're  stormed  at.  Yet  if  I  shout  at  them, 
there's  Doris  turning  white,  and  shaking,  and 
looking  as  if  she'd  surely  die.  I  tell  you,  Miss 
Judy,  I  feel  as  if  I'd  been  given  a  fine  china 
cup  to  tote  and  might  break  it  any  minute." 

Miss  Judy,  the  comforter  of  all  the  afflicted 
and  the  adviser  of  all  the  troubled,  said  what 
she  could  to  help  Sidney.  Doris  was  different 
from  other  children.  There  was  no  doubt  about 
that  and  about  its  being  difficult  to  know  how 
to  deal  with  such  a  sensitive  nature.  Miss  Judy 
said  that  she  did  not  believe,  however,  that  any 
other  mother  would  have  done  any  better  than 
Sidney  had  —  which  comforted  Sidney  inex 
pressibly.  The  little  body  could  not  think  of 
anything  to  advise.  She  did  not  know  much 
about  children,  and  she  had  not  much  confi 
dence  in  her  own  judgment  in  matters  concern 
ing  them.  So  that,  at  last,  after  a  long  talk  and 
for  lack  of  a  clearer  plan,  Miss  Judy  proposed 
that  Sidney  should  bring  Doris  the  next  morn 
ing  when  setting  out  on  her  professional  round, 
and  should  leave  the  little  one  with  Miss  Sophia 
and  herself.  Miss  Sophia  might  think  of  the 
very  thing  to  do ;  without  living  in  the  house 
with  Miss  Sophia  it  was  impossible  to  know 
how  sound  and  practical  her  judgment  was  — 
so  Miss  Judy  told  Sidney.  The  kind  proposal 
lightened  Sidney's  heart  and  she  accepted  it  at 

46 


The  Child  of  Miss  Judy's  Heart 

once.  She  had  her  own  opinion  as  to  the  value 
of  Miss  Sophia's  ideas,  but  she  responded  as 
she  knew  would  please  Miss  Judy;  and  she 
was  sure  at  all  events  that  Miss  Judy,  who  was 
just  such  another  sensitive  plant,  would  know 
what  to  do  with  Doris. 

Miss  Judy  on  her  side  was  not  nearly  so  con 
fident.  When  Sidney  had  gone  and  she  began 
to  realize  what  she  had  undertaken,  she  was 
a  good  deal  frightened.  She  not  only  knew 
almost  nothing  about  children,  as  she  had  con 
fessed  to  this  troubled  poor  mother;  but  she 
had  always  been  rather  afraid  of  them.  It  had 
always  seemed  to  her  an  appalling  responsibility 
to  assume  the  forming  of  one  of  these  impres 
sionable  little  souls ;  she  had  often  wondered 
tremblingly  at  the  lightness  with  which  many 
mothers  assumed  it.  And  here  she  was  —  rush 
ing  voluntarily  into  the  very  responsibility  which 
she  had  always  regarded  with  awe  —  almost 
with  terror.  More  and  more  disturbed  and  per 
plexed  as  she  thought  of  her  foolish  rashness, 
she  nevertheless  mechanically  set  about  get 
ting  ready  for  taking  charge  of  Doris  during 
the  next  day,  and  perhaps  for  many  other 
days,  until  she  had  at  least  tried  to  see  what 
she  could  do  for  the  child.  As  a  first  step  in 
the  preparation  she  climbed  the  steep  stairs 
to  the  loft,  which  she  had  not  entered  for 
years,  and  brought  down  an  old  doll  of  Miss 
Sophia's,  and  dusted  it  and  straightened  its  anti 
quated  clothes ;  putting  it  in  readiness  for  the 
ordeal  of  Doris  on  the  following  morning. 

47 


Oldfield 

.  "  She  can  sit  on  the  home-made  rug,  you 
know,  sister  Sophia,"  said  Miss  Judy,  nervously. 

"Just  so,  sister  Judy,"  promptly  and  firmly 
responded  Miss  Sophia,  who  never  noticed 
where  anybody  sat. 

"  And  don't  you  think  it  would  be  a  good 
idea  to  have  Merica  make  a  pig  and  a  kitten  out 
of  gingerbread  ?  They  might  perhaps  amuse 
the  child,  and  keep  her  from  crying.  A  half 
pint  of  flour  would  be  quite  enough,  and  we 
have  to  have  the  fire  anyway  because  it's  iron 
ing  day.  Then  Merica  picked  up  a  big  basket 
of  chips  behind  the  cabinet-maker's  shop  this 
morning." 

"Just  so,  sister  Judy,"  answered  Miss  Sophia, 
who  left  all  provision  for  fire  and  for  everything 
else  wholly  to  her  sister.  "  And  she  might 
make  us  some  gingerbread  too,  while  she's 
about  it." 

"  To  be  sure  ! "  exclaimed  Miss  Judy,  looking 
at  Miss  Sophia  in  loving  admiration.  "  So  she 
can.  How  quick  you  are  to  see  the  right  way, 
sister  Sophia.  I  never  seem  to  think  of  things 
as  you  do." 

But  even  as  she  spoke,  a  thought  flashed  un 
easily  across  her  mind,  causing  her  sweet  old 
face  to  beam  less  brightly.  What  if  the  child 
would  not  sit  on  the  home-made  rug?  She 
had  never  been  used  to  carpets  —  poor  little 
thing.  What  if  she  crumbled  the  gingerbread 
all  over  everything,  as  Miss  Judy  had  seen 
children  do,  time  and  again !  The  thought  of 
such  desecration  of  the  carpet  that  her  mother 

48 


The  Child  of  Miss  Judy's  Heart 

had  made,  for  which  she  had  carded  the  wool 
and  spun  the  warp  and  woven  the  woof,  all 
\vith  her  own  dear  little  hands,  made  Miss  Judy 
feel  almost  faint.  The  risk  of  such  danger 
threw  her  into  more  and  more  of  a  panic.  She 
hardly  slept  that  night,  troubled  by  dread  of 
what  she  had  so  thoughtfully  undertaken.  She 
was  pale  and  trembling  with  fright  when  Sidney 
brought  Doris  and  left  her  early  on  the  follow 
ing  day. 

But  the  child  sat  quite  still  on  the  rug  where 
her  mother  had  placed  her ;  and  she  did  not 
cry  when  Sidney  went  away,  as  Miss  Judy 
feared  she  would,  although  her  lips  quivered. 
She  soon  turned  to  look  at  the  doll,  which  Miss 
Judy  hastened  to  give  her  to  divert  her  atten 
tion, —  looking  at  it  as  tender  little  mothers  look 
at  afflicted  babies.  Then  she  gave  her  atten 
tion  to  the  gingerbread  kitten,  and,  later,  to  the 
gingerbread  pig;  and  Miss  Judy  was  pleased, 
though  she  could  hardly  have  told  why,  to  notice 
that  Doris  ate  the  pig  first  and  hesitated  some 
time  before  eating  the  kitten. 

Miss  Judy  gave  an  involuntary  sigh  of  relief 
when  both  the  pig  and  the  kitten  had  disap 
peared  without  leaving  a  crumb.  She  in 
stinctively  turned  toward  Miss  Sophia  with  a 
pardonable  little  air  of  triumph,  and  was  disap 
pointed  to  find  her  asleep  in  her  chair.  Thus 
Miss  Judy  and  Doris  were  left  alone  together, 
and  presently  the  quiet  child  lifted  her  grave 
brown  eyes  to  the  little  lady's  anxious  blue 
ones  and  they  exchanged  a  first  long,  bashful 
E  49 


Oldfield 

look.  Doris  was  not  old  enough  to  remember 
what  she  thought  of  Miss  Judy  at  that  time; 
but  Miss  Judy  always  remembered  how  Doris 
looked  —  such  a  wonderfully  beautiful,  gentle 
little  creature  —  as  she  sat  there  so  gravely, 
looking  up  with  her  mites  of  hands  folded  on 
her  lap.  After  a  time,  as  Miss  Sophia  slum 
bered  peacefully  on,  the  shy  child  and  the  shyer 
old  lady  began  to  make  timid  advances  to  one 
another.  Doris  undressed  the  forlorn  old  doll 
with  cautious  delight,  and  Miss  Judy  dressed  it 
again  with  exquisite  care  while  Doris  leaned  on 
her  knee,  hardly  knowing  what  she  did,  so  in 
tense  was  her  breathless  interest  in  what  Miss 
Judy  was  doing.  The  shyest  are  always  the 
most  trusting,  if  they  trust  at  all.  When  Sidney, 
returning  from  her  rounds,  came  by  at  nightfall  to 
take  Doris  home,  the  child  was  no  longer  in  the 
least  afraid  of  Miss  Judy;  and  Miss  Judy  was  not 
nearly  so  much  frightened  as  she  had  been  at  first. 
Yet  it  was,  after  all,  surprising,  considering 
how  timid  they  both  were,  that  they  should  so 
soon  have  become  tenderly  and  deeply  attached 
to  each  other.  But  every  day  that  Sidney 
brought  Doris  and  left  her,  she  was  happier  to 
come  and  more  willing  to  stay ;  and  erelong 
the  day  on  which  she  had  not  come  would  have 
been  an  empty  one  and  dull  indeed  for  Miss 
Judy.  One  bright  morning  they  had  been  very, 
very  happy  together.  Miss  Sophia  nodded  as 
usual  in  her  low  rocking-chair,  and  Miss  Judy 
was  darning  her  sister's  stockings  while  Doris 
played  at  her  feet. 


The  Child  of  Miss  Judy's  Heart 

"  Miss  Dudy,"  the  child  said  suddenly,  rais 
ing  her  large,  serious  eyes  to  Miss  Judy's  sweet 
face  with  a  puzzled  look  ;  "  was  it  you  or  my 
mammy  that  horned  me  ?  " 

Miss  Judy  started,  —  blushing,  smiling,  look 
ing  like  a  beautiful  girl,  —  and  bending  down 
she  gathered  the  little  one  in  her  arms  and  held 
her  for  a  long  time  very,  very  close.  From  that 
moment  her  love  for  Doris  assumed  a  different 
character. 

It  was  a  love  which  grew  with  the  child's 
growth ;  which  watched  and  fostered  every  new 
beauty  of  character  as  the  girl  blossomed  into 
early  womanhood,  beautiful  and  sweet  as  a  tall 
white  flower.  Gradually  Doris  became  as  the 
sun  and  the  moon  to  Miss  Judy,  the  first  object 
when  she  arose  in  the  morning,  her  last  thought 
when  she  lay  down  at  night.  Yet  this  devotion 
to  Doris,  and  absorption  in  the  girl's  interests 
and  future,  did  not  lessen  in  the  least  her  devo 
tion  to  Miss  Sophia,  her  ceaseless  watchfulness 
over  her  welfare,  her  tender  care  for  her  happi 
ness.  Her  love  for  Doris  never  touched  her 
love  for  her  sister  at  any  point.  The  two  loves 
were  so  distinct,  so  unlike,  so  widely  apart  that 
there  could  be  no  conflict.  It  is  true  that  Miss 
Judy's  love  for  Miss  Sophia  was  also  strongly 
and  tenderly  maternal.  But  Miss  Judy's  gentle 
heart  was  so  full  of  this  mother-love  —  single  and 
simple  —  that  some  of  it  might  have  been  given 
to  the  whole  human  race.  Her  love  for  Doris 
was  something  much  more  exclusive,  some 
thing  infinitely  more  subtle  than  this,  which  is 

51 


Oldfield 

shared  in  a  measure  by  every  womanly  woman. 
It  was  the  romantic,  poetic  love  which  is  given 
by  loving  age  to  lovable  youth  when  it  recalls 
life's  dawnlight  to  the  twilight  of  a  life  which 
has  never  known  the  full  sunrise. 

With  ineffable  tenderness  Miss  Judy  yearned 
to  lead  Doris  toward  the  best,  the  finest,  the 
highest,  toward  all  that  she  herself  had  reached, 
and  toward  much  which  she  had  missed.  The 
quaint,  the  antiquated,  the  absurd,  the  enchant 
ing  things  that  the  little  lady  taught  the  little 
child,  the  young  maiden!  There  was  noth 
ing  so  coarse  as  Shakespeare  and  nothing  so 
commonplace  as  the  musical  glasses.  Shake 
speare  seemed  to  Miss  Judy,  who  knew  him 
only  by  hearsay,  as  being  a  little  too  decided,  a 
little  too  distinctively  masculine.  It  was  her  the 
ory  of  manners  that  girls  should  learn  only  purely 
feminine  things.  The  musical  glasses  she  would 
have  deemed  rather  undesirable  as  being  less 
modish  than  the  guitar,  and  consequently  not  so 
well  adapted  to  the  high  polishing  of  a  young 
lady  of  quality,  of  such  fine  breeding  as  she  had 
determined  that  Doris's  should  be.  The  guitar 
which  led  Miss  Judy  to  this  conclusion  had  be 
longed  to  her  mother.  Its  faded  blue  ribbon,  tied 
in  an  old-fashioned  bow,  still  bore  the  imprint  of 
her  vanished  fingers.  The  ribbon  smelt  of  dried 
rose  leaves,  as  the  old  music-books  did  too,  when 
Miss  Judy  got  them  out  of  the  cabinet  in  the 
darkened  parlor,  and  gave  them  to  Doris,  smiling 
a  little  sadly,  as  she  always  smiled  when  think 
ing  of  her  mother.  Miss  Judy  preferred  Tom 

52 


The  Child  of  Miss  Judy's  Heart 

Moore's  songs,  because  they  were  very  sentimen 
tal,  and  also  because  they  were  the  only  ones 
that  she  knew.  She  had  never  been  able  to 
sing,  but  she  had  very  high  ideals  of  what  she 
called  "  expression,"  and  she  could  play  the 
guitar  after  a  pretty,  airy,  tinkling  old  fashion. 
So  that  Doris,  having  a  low,  sweet  voice  of 
much  natural  music  and  some  real  talent  for 
the  art,  learned  easily  enough  through  even 
Miss  Judy's  methods  of  teaching;  and  came 
erelong  to  sing  of  "  Those  endearing  young 
charms "  and  "  The  heart  that  has  truly 
loved "  in  a  bewitchingly  heart-broken  way ; 
while  the  faded  blue  ribbon  fell  round  her 
lovely  young  shoulders. 

It  was  really  a  pity  that  no  one  except  Miss 
Sophia  saw  or  heard  those  lessons — which  must 
have  been  so  well  worth  seeing  and  hearing, 
Miss  Judy  and  Doris  were  both  so  entirely  in 
earnest  in  all  that  they  were  doing.  Both  were 
so  thoroughly  convinced  that  the  things  being 
taught  and  learned  were  precisely  the  things 
which  a  young  gentlewoman  should  know. 
Yet  nobody  but  poor  Miss  Sophia,  who  was 
asleep  most  of  the  time,  ever  had  so  much  as 
a  glimpse  of  all  that  was  constantly  going  on 
in  this  forming  of  a  young  lady  of  quality. 
It  was  another  part  of  Miss  Judy's  theory  of 
manners  that  everything  concerning  a  gentle 
woman,  young  or  old,  must  be  strictly  private. 
When,  therefore,  it  came  to  such  delicate  mat 
ters  as  walking  and  courtesying  —  as  a  young 
lady  of  quality  should  walk  and  courtesy  —  not 

53 


Oldfield 

even  Miss  Sophia  was  permitted  to  be  present. 
Miss  Judy  took  Doris  into  the  darkened  parlor 
and  raised  the  shades  only  a  cautious  inch  or 
two,  so  that,  while  they  could  see  to  move  about, 
no  living  eye  might  behold  the  charming  scene 
which  was  taking  place.  And  there  in  this 
dim  light,  the  dainty  old  lady  and  the  grace 
ful  young  girl  would  take  delicate  steps  and 
make  wonderful  courtesies  —  grave  as  grave 
could  be  —  all  up  and  down,  and  up  and  down 
that  sad  old  room. 

Let  nobody  think,  however,  that  Miss  Judy 
thought  only  of  accomplishments,  while  she  was 
thus  throwing  her  whole  heart  and  mind  and 
soul  into  the  rearing  and  the  training  of  this 
child  of  her  spirit.  The  substantial  branches  of 
education  were  not  neglected.  Miss  Judy  tried 
untiringly  to  help  Doris  in  gaining  a  store  of 
really  useful  knowledge.  She  did  not  know  so 
well  how  to  go  about  this  as  she  did  about  the 
music  and  the  courtesy.  She  knew  little  if  any 
more  of  the  hard  prosaic  side  of  the  world  than 
Doris  herself  knew  —  which  was  nothing  at  all. 
But  she  had  a  few  good  old  books.  Her  father 
had  been  a  true  lover  of  the  best  in  literature, 
and  her  mother  had  been  as  fond  of  sentiment 
in  fiction  as  in  real  life.  These  books,  thick, 
stubby  old  volumes  bound  in  leather,  gathered 
by  them,  were  Miss  Judy's  greatest  pride  and 
delight.  She  therefore  led  Doris  to  them  in  due 
time,  impressing  her  with  proper  reverence,  and 
thus  the  girl  became  in  a  measure  acquainted 
with  a  very  few  of  the  few  really  great  in  letters, 

54 


The  Child  of  Miss  Judy's  Heart 

• 

and  learned  to  know  them  as  they  may  be  known 
to  an  old  lady  and  a  young  girl  who  have  never 
had  a  glimpse  of  the  world. 

Miss  Judy  had  but  one  book  which  was  less 
than  a  half  century  in  age.  That  one  book, 
however,  was  very,  very  new  indeed  and  so  re 
markable  that  Miss  Judy  held  it  to  be  worthy 
of  a  place  with  the  old  great  ones.  She  had 
already  read  it  several  times,  and  yet,  strange 
to  say,  she  had  not  given  it  to  Doris  to  read. 
Of  course  she  had  told  her  about  it  as  soon  as 
it  came  from  the  thoughtful  friend  in  Virginia 
who  had  sent  it.  But,  for  certain  reasons  which 
were  not  quite  clear  to  herself,  she  was  doubtful 
about  its  being  the  kind  of  a  book  best  calcu 
lated  to  be  really  improving  to  Doris.  She  had 
read  it  aloud  to  Miss  Sophia  (who  tried  her  best 
to  keep  awake),  and  she  was  confidently  relying 
upon  her  judgment,  which  she  considered  so 
much  sounder  and  more  practical  than  her  own, 
in  making  the  decision.  It  was  quite  a  serious 
matter,  and  Miss  Judy  was  still  earnestly  though 
silently  considering  it  after  breakfast  on  that 
morning  in  March. 

"  The  more  I  think  of  it  the  surer  I  feel  that 
the  main  trouble  with  Becky  was  that  she  had 
no  proper  bringing  up,  poor  thing ;  "  remarked 
Miss  Judy  suddenly  and  rather  absently,  as  if 
speaking  more  to  herself  than  to  her  sister. 

They  sat  side  by  side  in  their  little  rocking- 
chairs  as  they  loved  to  sit,  and  they  were  busily 
engaged  in  sorting  garden  seeds.  That  is,  Miss 
Judy  was  sorting  the  seeds  while  Miss  Sophia 

55 


Oldficld 

held  the  nc.it  little  calico  bags  which  Miss 
Judy  had  made  in  the  fall,  while  Miss  Sophia 
held  the  calico.  Still,  Miss  Sophia's  coopera 
tion,  slight  as  it  seemed,  really  required  a  good 
deal  of  effort  and  very  close  attention.  It  was 
all  she  could  do  to  keep  the  bags  on  her  round 
little  knees;  nature,  wrio  is  niggardly  in  many 
things,  having  denied  the  poor  lady  a  lap. 

"Who?"  asked  Miss  Sophia,  staring,  and 
struggling  with  the  seed-bags.  "  What  Hetty?" 

"  Why,  Becky  Sharp,  of  course,"  said  Miss 
Judy. 

She  was  much  surprised,  and  a  little  hurt  that 
Miss  Sophia  should  so  soon  have  forgotten 
Becky,  when  they  had  talked  about  her  until 
they  had  gone  to  bed  on  the  night  before,  to  say 
nothing  of  many  other  times.  But  she  was  only 
a  bit  hurt,  she  was  never  offended  by  anything 
that  Miss  Sophia  did  or  said,  and  she  went 
on  as  if  she  had  not  been  even  disappointed. 
"  We  must  make  up  our  minds  as  to  the  ad 
visability  of  giving  Doris  the  book  to  read  be 
fore  long.  I  was  just  wondering  whether  you 
thought  as  I  think,  sister  Sophia,  that  if  Becky's 
mother  had  lived  she  would  have  been  taught 
better  than  to  do  those  foolish  things,  which 
were  so  shockingly  misunderstood.  I  firmly 
believe  that  if  Becky  had  been  properly  brought 
up,  poor  thing,  she  might  have  made  a  good 
woman.  I  have  been  waiting  for  a  good  op 
portunity  to  ask  your  opinion.  What  would  we 
have  been,  without  our  dear  mother?"  she  urged, 
as  though  pleading  with  Miss  Sophia  not  to 

56 


The  Child  of  Miss  Judy's  Heart 

be  too  hard  on  Becky.  "  And  she  was  always 
so  poor,  too.  Mercifully  weve  never  had  actual 
poverty  to  contend  with,  as  — 'poor  Becky  had. 
Most  of  the  trouble  came  from  that  —  Becky 
herself  said  it  did,  you  remember,  sister  So 
phia." 

"Just  so,  sister  Judy,"  responded  Miss 
Sophia,  warmly,  and  without  a  shade  of  re 
serve,  although  she  had  but  the  haziest  notion 
of  who  Becky  was,  or  had  been,  or  might  be ; 
and  speaking  with  such  firm  decision  that  Miss 
Judy  felt  as  if  the  matter  were  really  about 
decided  at  last. 


57 


V 

AN    UNCONSCIOUS    PHILOSOPHER 

THERE  is  much  more  in  the  way  that  a  thing 
is  said  than  we  are  apt  to  realize.  ;  Miss  Sophia 
always  repeated  her  vague  and  unvaried  for 
mula,  whenever  Miss  Judy  seemed  to  expect  a 
response,  and  she  always  did  it  with  such  an 
effect  of  firm  conviction  as  renewed  Miss  Judy's 
confidence  in  the  soundness  of  her  judgment 
and  value  of  her  advice.  In  this  satisfactory 
manner  the  little  sisters  were  again  discussing 
the  new  book  several  weeks  later,  when  the 
spring  was  well  advanced.  They  had  thus  de 
bated  the  serious  question  of  Doris's  being  or 
not  being  permitted  to  read  the  new  novel,  for 
an  hour  or  more ;  and  they  might  have  gone 
on  discussing  it  indefinitely,  as  they  did  most 
things,  had  not  Sidney  Wendall  come  in  quite 
unexpectedly. 

As  the  Oldfield  front  doors  set  open  all  day, 
there  was  not  much  ceremony  in  the  announce 
ment  of  visitors.  The  caller  usually  tapped  on 
the  door  and  entered  the  house  forthwith,  going 
on  to  seek  the  family  wherever  the  members  of 
it  were  most  likely  to  be  found.  Sidney  now 
gave  the  tap  required  by  politeness,  and  then, 
hearing  the  murmur  of  voices,  went  straight 
through  the  passage  and  into  the  room  in  which 
the  sisters  were  sitting.  They  both  glanced  up 

58 


An  Unconscious  Philosopher 

with  a  look  of  pleased  surprise  as  Sidney's  tall 
form  darkened  the  doorway.  Miss  Judy  could 
not  rise  to  receive  Sidney  on  account  of  having 
an  apronful  of  late  garden-seeds.  Her  sister 
was  holding  the  calico  bags,  as  usual ;  and  then 
Miss  Sophia's  getting  out  of  a  chair  and  on  her 
feet  was  always  a  matter  of  time  and  difficulty. 
But  their  faces  beamed  a  warm  welcome,  and 
Miss  Judy  called  Merica  away  from  the  iron 
ing-table  in  the  kitchen  to  fetch  the  parlor  rock 
ing-chair  for  Sidney  to  sit  in,  which  was  in  itself 
a  distinguished  attention,  such  as  could  not  but 
be  flattering  to  any  guest.  And  when  Sidney 
was  seated,  Merica  was  requested  to  draw  a 
bucket  of  water  fresh  from  the  well,  so  that 
Sidney  might  have  a  nice  cool  drink. 

Sidney,  whom  no  one  ever  thought  of  calling 
Mrs.  Wendall,  was  a  large,  lean,  angular  woman. 
She  had  come  in  knitting.  She  always  knitted 
as  she  walked,  carrying  the  big  ball  of  yarn  under 
her  strong  left  arm.  Her  calico  sunbonnet  was 
always  worn  far  back  on  her  head.  She  took 
it  off  that  day  as  soon  as  she  sat  down,  and 
hung  it  on  the  knob  of  the  chair.  Then  she 
removed  the  horn  comb  from  her  hair,  let  it 
drop,  shook  it  out,  twisted  it  up  again  with  a 
swish  —  into  a  very  tight  knot  —  and  thrust  the 
comb  back  in  place  with  singular  emphasis. 
Everybody  in  Oldfield  knew  what  those  ges 
tures  meant.  Nobody  seemed  to  notice  what 
wonderful  hair  she  had.  It  was  long,  thick, 
silky,  rippling,  and  of  the  color  of  the  richest 
gold.  It  was  most  beautiful  hair — rich  and 

59 


Oldfield 

dazzling  enough  to  crown  a  young  queen  —  and 
most  strangely  out  of  place  on  Sidney's  homely, 
middle-aged  head ;  with  its  plain  sallow  face,  its 
pale  shrewd  eyes,  its  grotesquely  long  nose,  its 
expression  of  whimsical  humor,  and  its  wide 
jester's  mouth. 

The  Oldfield  people  were  so  well  used  to 
seeing  Sidney  take  her  hair  down,  and  twist  it 
up  again,  even  in  the  middle  of  the  big  road, 
that  they  had  long  since  ceased  to  observe  the 
hair  itself.  It  was  the  meaning  of  the  gestures 
that  instantly  caught  and  held  the  eager  interest 
of  the  entire  community.  For,  whenever  Sidney 
took  off  her  bonnet,  and  let  down  her  hair  and 
shook  it  vigorously  and  swished  it  up  again  into 
a  tighter  knot,  and  put  the  comb  back  with  a 
certain  degree  of  emphasis,  everybody  knew  that 
there  was  something  interesting  in  the  wind. 
Poor  Miss  Sophia,  who  was  not  quick  to  under 
stand  many  things,  knew  what  those  signs  meant, 
and  when  she  saw  them  that  day  she  straightened 
up  suddenly,  wide  awake,  and  breathing  hard  as 
she  always  was  when  trying  her  best  to  keep  the 
track  of  what  was  going  on,  and  forgetting  all 
about  the  seed-bags,  which  abruptly  slid  over 
the  precipice,  wholly  unheeded.  Even  Miss 
Judy,  who  so  disliked  gossip,  could  not  help 
feeling  somewhat  agreeably  excited  and  turn 
ing  quite  pink,  as  she  remembered  that  she  had 
never  known  Sidney's  news  to  do  any  harm,  to 
wound  any  one,  to  injure  any  one,  or  to  make 
mischief  of  any  description.  She  had  often 
wondered  how  Sidney  could  talk  all  day  long, 

60 


An  Unconscious  Philosopher 

day  after  day,  year  in  and  year  out,  going  con 
stantly  from  house  to  house  without  doing  harm 
sometimes  through  sheer  inadvertence.  She 
now  looked  at  Sidney  in  smiling  expectancy, 
turning  a  rosier  pink  from  growing  anticipa 
tion. 

The  mere  fact  of  an  unexpected  visit  from 
Sidney  was  enough  to  throw  any  Oldfield 
household  into  a  state  of  delightful  excitement. 
Sidney's  visits  were  like  visits  of  Royalty ;  they 
always  had  to  be  arranged  for  in  advance,  and 
they  always  had  to  be  paid  for  afterwards.  It  was 
clearly  understood  by  everybody  that  Sidney 
went  nowhere  without  a  formal  invitation  given 
some  time  in  advance,  and  an  explicit  and  suffi 
cient  inducement.  Yet  there  was  nothing  in 
this  to  her  discredit ;  she  was  far  from  being  the 
mere  sordid  mercenary  that  Royalty  seems  now 
and  then  to  be.  Sidney  was  an  open,  upright 
worker  in  life's  vineyard,  and  did  nothing  dis 
creditable  in  holding  herself  worthy  of  her  hire. 
It  was  necessary  for  her  to  earn  a  living  for  five 
needy  souls ;  for  her  three  children,  her  hus 
band's  brother,  and  herself.  There  were  not 
many  avenues  open  to  women-workers  in  any 
part  of  the  world  in  the  day  of  Sidney's  direst 
need.  There  were  fewer  where  she  lived  than 
almost  anywhere  else  throughout  the  civilized 
earth.  She  did  what  she  might  do  ;  she  learned 
to  earn  bread  for  her  family  by  the  only  honor 
able  means  in  her  power.  She  studied  to  amuse 
the  people  of  the  village  who  had  no  other  source 
of  entertainment.  She  raised  her  adopted  pro- 

61 


Oldfield 

fession  until  it  became  an  art.  It  is  probable 
that  she  had  the  comedian's  talent  to  begin 
with.  She  certainly  possessed  the  comic  actor's 
mouth.  And  then  she  doubtless  soon  learned, 
as  most  of  us  learn  sooner  or  later,  that  it  is 
more  profitable  to  make  the  world  laugh  than 
to  make  it  weep.  At  all  events  the  part  that 
she  played  was  nearly  always  a  merry  one. 
Only  once,  indeed,  during  the  whole  of  her  long 
professional  career,  was  she  ever  known  to  come 
close  to  tragedy ;  but  those  who  were  present 
at  the  time  never  forgot  what  she  said,  how 
she  said  it,  nor  how  she  looked  while  saying  it. 

It  happened  one  night  at  old  lady  Gordon's, 
over  the  supper  table.  The  party  had  been  a 
gay  one,  and  Sidney  had  been  the  life  of  it,  as 
she  always  was  of  every  gathering  in  Oldfield. 
She  had  told  her  best  stories,  she  had  given  out 
her  latest  news,  she  had  said  many  witty  and 
amusing  things,  until  the  whole  table  was  in 
what  the  ladies  of  Oldfield  would  have  described 
as  a  "  regular  gale."  It  was  not  until  they  were 
rising  from  the  supper,  still  laughing  at  Sidney's 
jokes,  that  she  said,  in  an  off-hand  way  —  as  if 
upon  second  thought  —  that  she  would  like  to 
have  some  of  the  dainties,  with  which  the  table 
was  laden,  to  take  home  to  her  children.  Before 
old  lady  Gordon  had  time  to  say,  "  Certainly, 
I'll  fix  up  the  basket,"  as  everybody  always  said 
whenever  Sidney  made  that  expected  remark, 
Miss  Pettus  blazed  out :  — 

"  How  can  you !  "  she  cried,  turning  in  her 
fiery  way  upon  Sidney.  "  How  can  you  sit  here, 

62 


An  Unconscious  Philosopher 

eating,  laughing,  and  spinning  yarns,  when  you 
know  your  children  are  hungry  at  home  —  and 
never  think  of  them  till  now?"  Her  little 
black  eyes  were  flashing,  and  she  looked  Sidney 
straight  in  the  face,  meaning  every  word  that 
she  said. 

The  very  breath  was  taken  out  of  the  com 
pany.  The  ladies  were  stricken  speechless  with 
amazement  and  dismay.  Even  old  lady  Gor 
don  had  not  a  thing  ready  to  say.  Sidney,  too, 
stood  still  and  silent  for  a  moment,  resting  her 
han'd  on  the  back  of  her  chair.  She  turned 
white,  standing  very  erect,  looking  taller  than 
ever,  and  very  calm  —  a  figure  of  great  dignity. 

"  I  think  of  my  children  first,  last,  and  all  the 
time,"  she  said  quietly  and  slowly  after  an 
instant's  strained  silence.  Her  cool,  pale  eyes 
met  Miss  Pettus's  hot  black  eyes  steadily. 

"  But  I  don't  think  it  best  to  talk  about  them 
too  much ; "  she  went  on  calmly.  "  Do  any  of 
you  ladies  think  my  children  would  get  their  sup 
per  any  sooner  if  I  came  here  whining  about  how 
hungry  they  were?  Would  you  ever  invite  me  to 
come  again  if  I  did  that  —  even  once?  Would 
you,  Mrs.  Gordon  ?  Would  you  invite  me  to  your 
parties,  Miss  Pettus  ?  Wouldn't  you,  and  you, 
and  all  of  you"  —  turning  from  one  to  another 
—  "  begin  right  away  to  regard  me  as  a  tiresome 
beggar  and  my  children  as  paupers  ?  I  am 
afraid  you  would.  It  would  only  be  human 
nature.  I'm  not  blaming  anybody.  But  —  I 
don't  intend  to  risk  it.  I  think  things  are  bet 
ter  as  they  stand  now.  I  amuse  you  and  you 

63 


Oldfield 

help  me.  I  give  you  what  you  like  in  exchange 
for  what  my  children  need.  It's  a  fair  trade ; 
you're  all  bound  by  it  to  regard  me  and  my 
children  with  respect." 

Miss  Pettus  was  crying  as  if  her  heart  would 
break  long  before  Sidney  was  done  speaking.  She 
fairly  flew  at  her  and,  throwing  her  arms  around 
Sidney's  neck,  begged  her  forgiveness  with  a 
humility  such  as  no  one  ever  knew  that  hasty, 
hot-tempered,  well-meaning  little  woman  to  show 
over  any  other  of  her  many  mistakes.  Never  after 
ward  would  she  allow  Sidney  to  be  criticised  in 
her  presence.  She  quarrelled  fiercely  with  the 
doctor's  wife  for  saying  that  she  really  could  not 
see  how  Sidney  got  her  news,  and  for  quoting  the 
doctor's  opinion  that  it  must  come  over  the  grape 
vine  telegraph.  Miss  Pettus  would  have  had  her 
brother  send  Sidney's  children  a  portion  of 
everything  that  his  store  contained.  But  Sid 
ney  would  not  accept  from  any  one  a  penny 
worth  more  than  she  earned.  If  Miss  Pettus 
wished  to  send  the  Wendall  family  a  pound  of 
candles  after  Sidney  had  supped  with  her,  spic 
ing  the  meal  with  news  and  anecdote,  all  very 
well  and  good.  Or  if,  after  Sidney's  making  a 
special  effort  to  enliven  one  of  Miss  Pettus's 
dinner  parties  in  the  middle  of  the  day,  that 
lady  suggested  giving  Uncle  Watty  a  pair  of 
her  brother's  trousers,  Sidney  was  glad  and 
even  thankful.  To  get  her  brother-in-law's 
clothes  was,  indeed,  the  hardest  problem  she 
had  to  solve.  And  then,  when  Uncle  Watty 
had  done  with  the  trousers,  they  could  be  cut 

64 


An  Unconscious  Philosopher 

down  for  her  son,  Billy.  Under  such  proper  cir 
cumstances,  Sidney  accepted  all  sorts  of  things 
from  everybody  —  anything,  indeed,  that  she 
chanced  to  want  —  with  as  complete  indepen 
dence  and  as  entire  freedom  from  any  feeling 
of  obligation,  as  any  artist  accepts  his  fee  for 
entertaining  the  public. 

The  obligation  commonly  imposed  by  hospi 
tality  had  consequently  no  weight  whatever 
with  Sidney,  and  in  this,  also,  she  was  not  un 
like  some  other  celebrities.  She  did  not  hesi 
tate  to  express  her  opinion  of  old  lady  Gordon, 
whose  supper  she  had  eaten  on  the  previous 
evening,  when  Miss  Judy,  knowing  about  it  and 
wishing  to  start  the  conversational  ball  rolling, 
now  asked  how  things  passed  off.  Sidney  had 
swapped  her  spiciest  stories  for  old  lady  Gor 
don's  richest  food.  Old  lady  Gordon  was  per 
fectly  free  to  think  and  to  say  what  she  pleased 
about  those  stories  (provided  she  never  men 
tioned  them  before  Miss  Judy) ;  and  Sidney,  on 
her  side,  held  herself  equally  free  to  think  and 
to  say  what  she  thought  of  her  hostess  and  of 
the  supper  too,  had  that  been  open  to  criticism 
—  which  old  lady  Gordon's  suppers  never 
were. 

"  That  old  woman  is  a  regular  Hessian"  was 
Sidney's  reply  to  Miss  Judy's  innocent  inquiry. 

"  Dear  me ! "  exclaimed  Miss  Judy,  quite 
startled  and  rather  shocked.  "  Really,  Sidney, 
I  don't  think  you  should  call  anybody  such  a 
name  as  that." 

"  Well,  I'd  like  to  know  what  else  a  body  is 
F  65 


Oldfield 

to  call  an  old  woman  who  hasn't  got  a  mite  of 
natural  feeling." 

"  But  we  have  no  right  to  say  that  either  of  any 
body.  We  can't  tell,"  pleaded  gentle  Miss  Judy. 

She  was  wondering,  nevertheless,  as  she  spoke, 
what  could  have  occurred  at  old  lady  Gordon's 
on  the  night  before.  It  was  plain  that  the  news 
which  Sidney  was  holding  back  for  an  effective 
bringing  forth  must  have  had  something  to  do 
with  the  visit.  However,  it  was  always  useless 
to  try  to  make  Sidney  tell  what  she  had  to  tell,  until 
she  was  quite  ready.  Even  Miss  Sophia  was 
well  aware  of  this  peculiarity  of  Sidney's,  and, 
breathing  harder  than  ever  in  the  intensity  of 
her  curiosity  and  suspense,  she  leaned  forward, 
doing  her  utmost  to  understand  what  was  being 
said  in  leading  up  to  the  news.  Miss  Judy, 
of  course,  understood  Sidney's  methods  perfectly, 
through  long  and  intimate  acquaintance  with 
them ;  and  then,  aside  from  the  fact  that  Sidney 
could  not  be  hurried,  Miss  Judy  always  tried 
anyway  to  turn  the  talk  away  from  unpleasant 
themes. 

"  Did  you  remember  to  ask  Mrs.  Gordon  about 
Mr.  Beauchamp  ? "  Miss  Judy  now  inquired, 
adroitly  bending  Sidney's  thoughts  toward  a 
delightful  subject  in  which  they  were  both  deeply 
interested.  "  Did  she  know  whether  he  used  to 
be  a  dancing-master  in  his  own  country,  as  we 
have  understood  ?  I  do  hope  you  haven't 
changed  your  mind,"  she  added  earnestly.  "  It 
is  really  most  important  for  Doris  to  learn  to 
dance." 

(56 


An  Unconscious  Philosopher 

"  No,  I  haven't  changed  it  a  bit.  I've  got  the 
same  Hard-shell,  Whiskey  Baptist  mind  that  I've 
had  for  the  last  forty  years.  But  it  isn't  as  / 
think  about  dancing,  or  anything  else  that 
Doris  is  concerned  in.  It's  as  you  think  — " 

"  No  —  no,  you  mustn't  say  that,"  protested 
Miss  Judy. 

"  I  do  say  it,  I  mean  it,  and  I  intend  to  abide 
by  it,"  declared  Sidney,  laying  her  knitting  on 
her  lap  and  loosing  rings  of  yarn  from  her  big 
ball  and  holding  them  out  at  arm's  length. 
"  You've  always  known  better  what  was  good 
for  Doris  than  I  ever  have.  When  it  comes  to 
a  difference  of  opinion  I'm  bound  to  give  up." 

Miss  Judy  blushed  and  looked  distressed. 
"  It  is  really  such  an  important  matter,"  she 
urged  timidly.  "  A  young  lady  cannot  possibly 
learn  how  to  walk  and  how  to  carry  herself  with 
real  grace,  without  being  taught  dancing.  If  I 
only  had  some  one  to  play  the  tune,  I  might  teach 
Doris  the  rudiments  myself;  or  sister  Sophia 
might,  if  she  hadn't  that  shortness  of  breath, 
and  if  I  could  play  any  instrumental  piece 
on  the  guitar  except  the  Spanish  fandango. 
That  tune,  however,  is  not  very  well  suited  to  the 
minuet,  which  is  the  only  dance  that  we  ever 
learned.  Mother  taught  us  the  minuet,  because 
she  thought  it  necessary  for  all  well  brought  up 
girls  to  learn  it  just  for  deportment,  though  she 
knew  we  should  probably  never  have  an  oppor 
tunity  to  dance  it  in  society." 

Thus  reminded  of  the  many  things  that  they 
had  missed,  Miss  Judy  turned  and  smiled  a 

67 


Oldfield 

little  sadly  at  Miss  Sophia,  as  though  it  were 
the  sweetest  and  most  natural  thing  in  the  world 
to  speak  of  Miss  Sophia's  dancing  the  minuet, 
—  poor,  little,  round,  slow  Miss  Sophia!  And 
Miss  Sophia  also  thought  it  sweet  and  natural, 
her  dull  gaze  meeting  her  sister's  bright  one 
with  confiding  love  as  she  murmured  the  usual 
vague  assent. 

"  And  did  you  think  to  ask  Mrs.  Gordon 
whether  Mr.  Beauchamp  — "  Miss  Judy  hesi 
tated  at  the  Frenchman's  name,  which  she 
pronounced  as  the  English  pronounce  it,  and 
delicately  touched  her  forehead. 

"  She  said  he  was  perfectly  sane  except  upon 
that  one  subject,  and  the  kindest,  honestest 
soul  alive,"  said  Sidney,  whisking  the  ball 
from  under  her  arm  and  reeling  off  more  yarn. 

Miss  Judy's  sweet  old  face  and  soft  blue  eyes 
wore  the  dreamy  look  which  always  came  over 
them  when  her  imagination  was  stirred.  "  How 
romantic  it  is  and  how  touching,  that  he  should 
have  believed,  through  all  these  years  of  hard 
work  and  a  menial  life,  that  he  is  Napoleon's 
son,  the  real  King  of  Rome." 

"  Well,  it  don't  do  any  harm,"  Sidney,  the 
practical,  said.  "  He  don't  dance  with  his  head. 
It  seems  to  me,  too,  I've  heard  that  lots  of  crazy 
folks  were  great  dancers.  Anyway,  you  may  tell 
him,  as  soon  as  you  like,  that  I'll  knit  his  sum 
mer  socks  to  pay  him  for  showing  Doris  how 
to  dance,  and  you  may  say  that  I'll  throw  in  the 
cotton  to  boot.  I  always  like  to  pay  the  full 
price  for  whatever  I  get.  If  he  still  thinks  that 

68 


An  Unconscious  Philosopher 

isn't  enough,  you  might  tell  him  I'm  willing  to 
knit  his  winter  ones  too,  but  he's  got  to  furnish 
the  yarn  —  there's  reason  in  all  things." 

"  You  are  sure  that  Mr.  Beauchamp  used  to 
be  a  dancing-master?  "  asked  Miss  Judy. 

"  Old  lady  Gordon  told  me  she  had  heard 
something  of  the  kind,  but  she  said  she  had 
never  paid  any  attention.  She  never  does  pay 
any  attention  to  anything  unless  she  means  to 
eat  it,"  Sidney  said. 

"  Poor  old  lady  Gordon,"  sighed  Miss  Judy. 
"  She  hasn't  much  except  her  meals  to  attend 
to  or  think  about.  She  must  be  very,  very 
lonely,  all  alone  in  the  world." 

"  I've  never  seen  any  sign  of  her  being  sorry 
for  herself,"  responded  Sidney,  knitting  faster, 
as  she  always  did  when  warming  to  her  subject. 
"  I  never  heard  of  her  making  any  such  sign 
when  her  son  and  only  child  went  away  and 
died  without  coming  back.  I  never  heard  or 
saw  her  show  any  anxiety  about  his  son  and 
only  child,  that  she's  never  laid  her  eyes  on, 
though  he's  now  a  grown  man.  I  never  heard 
a  hint  from  her  about  him  last  night  —  till  she 
had  eaten  the  last  ounce  of  the  pound-cake  ; 
and  drunk  the  last  drop  of  the  blackberry  cor 
dial.  Then  she  remembered  to  tell  me  that  this 
only  grandson  of  hers  is  coming  at  last." 

Here  was  the  news!  Miss  Sophia  settled 
back  in  her  chair  with  a  deep  breath  of  satis 
faction.  Miss  Judy  exclaimed  in  interested 
surprise.  Very  few  strangers  came  to  Oldfield, 
consequently  the  advent  of  a  young  gentleman 

69 


Oldfield 

from  a  distant  city  was  an  event  indeed.  No 
wonder  that  Sidney  had  made  as  much  of  it  as 
she  could.  Miss  Judy,  and  even  Miss  Sophia,  felt 
the  high  compliment  paid  them  in  being  the 
first  to  whom  Sidney  had  taken  the  thrilling 
intelligence.  It  was,  in  fact,  the  highest  expres 
sion  of  Sidney's  gratitude  to  Miss  Judy,  and  fully 
recognized  as  such  by  both  the  little  sisters,  who 
appreciated  it  accordingly. 

When  Sidney  was  gone  on  her  way  to  distrib 
ute  the  great  news  at  the  various  points  which 
promised  the  largest  results,  Miss  Judy  went  into 
the  darkened  parlor,  the  other  of  the  two  large 
rooms  which  the  house  contained.  It  was 
rarely  opened,  and  never  used  except  when,  at 
long  and  rare  intervals,  a  formal  caller,  of  whom 
there  were  not  many  in  that  country,  was  in 
vited  to  enter  it  and  to  feel  the  way  to  a  chilly, 
slippery  seat.  There  were  two  good  reasons 
for  the  room's  disuse.  One  was  that  social 
preeminence  in  the  Pennyroyal  Region  de 
manded  a  dark  and  disused  parlor,  although 
it  did  not  militate  against  a  bed  in  the  living 
room.  Formal  visitors  expected  to  grope  their 
way  through  impenetrable  gloom  to  invisible 
seats.  Accidents  sometimes  happened,  it  is 
true,  as  when,  upon  one  occasion,  old  lady  Gor 
don,  in  calling  upon  Miss  Judy  shortly  before 
Major  Bramwell  left  for  Virginia,  sat  down  in 
a  large  chair,  without  being  aware  that  it  was 
already  occupied  by  the  major,  who  was  a  very 
small  man.  The  second  good  reason  for  the 
room's  not  being  used  was  that  in  cool  weather 

70 


An  Unconscious  Philosopher 

Miss  Judy  could  not  get  fuel  for  another  fire. 
It  was  all  that  Merica  could  do,  all  the  year 
round,  to  find  enough  wood  for  one  fire ;  the 
stray  sticks  dropped  from  passing  wagons,  an 
occasional  branch  fallen  from  the  old  locust  trees 
which  lined  the  big  road,  and  the  regular  basket 
of  chips  picked  up  behind  the  cabinet-maker's 
shop,  barely  sufficing  to  keep  up  a  small  blaze 
in  the  corner  of  the  fireplace  in  the  living  room, 
which  was  also  the  sisters'  bedroom. 

Miss  Judy  groped  her  way  cautiously  through 
the  darkness  of  the  chilly  parlor,  and  raised  the 
shades  far  enough  to  let  in  a  slender  shaft  of 
sunlight.  She  looked  around  the  room  with  a 
soft  sigh.  It  was  so  full  of  sad  and  tender  mem 
ories,  and  so  empty  of  everything  else.  The 
portraits  of  her  father  and  mother,  painted  very 
young,  hung  side  by  side  over  the  tall  mantel 
piece.  The  intelligent  force  of  her  father's  face 
and  the  soft  beauty  of  her  mother's  came  back 
to  Miss  Judy  anew  whenever  she  looked  at 
their  likenesses.  On  the  opposite  walls  hung  the 
portraits  of  her  paternal  grandfather  and  grand 
mother,  painted  when  they  were  very  old.  The 
old  gentleman,  a  judge  under  the  crown  in  Vir 
ginia,  had  been  painted  in  his  wig  and  gown. 
His  fine  face  was  hard  and  stern,  and  Miss  Judy 
often  wondered  whether  he  ever  had  forgiven 
his  son  for  fighting  against  the  king  and  the 
mother  country.  The  old  lady's  face  was 
as  sweet  and  gentle  as  Miss  Judy's  own,  and 
there  was  a  charming  resemblance  between  the 
pictured  and  the  living  features.  But  the  grand- 

71 


Oldfield 

mother's  face  wore  an  expression  of  unhappiness. 
and  the  granddaughter's  was  never  unhappy, 
although  it  was  sometimes  sad  for  the  unhappi 
ness  of  others  and  the  pain  of  the  world. 

The  portraits  had  been  taken  out  of  their 
frames,  so  that  they  might  be  brought  over  the 
Alleghanies  with  less  difficulty.  They  had 
never  been  reframed,  and  there  was  something 
inexpressibly  melancholy  in  their  hanging  thus, 
quite  unshielded,  against  the  rough,  white 
washed  logs.  Melancholy,  vague  and  far-off, 
pervaded  indeed  the  whole  atmosphere  of  the 
shadowed  room.  It  floated  out  from  a  broken 
vase  of  parian  marble  which  was  rilled  with  dried 
rose  leaves,  brown  and  crumbling,  yet  still  send 
ing  forth  that  sweetest,  purest,  loneliest,  and 
saddest  of  scents.  It  clung  about  the  angular, 
empty  arms  of  the  few  old  chairs,  dim  with 
brocade  of  faded  splendor.  It  lay  on  the  long 
old  sofa  —  with  its  high  back  and  its  sunken 
springs  —  like  the  wan  ghost  of  some  bright 
dream  that  had  never  come  true.  But  the 
tenderest  and  subtlest  sadness  came  from 
the  fading  sampler  which  Miss  Judy's  mother 
had  worked  in  those  endless  days  of  exile  in 
the  wilderness.  Ah,  the  silent  suffering,  the 
patient  endurance,  the  uncomplaining  disap 
pointment,  wrought  into  those  numberless 
stitches !  And  yet,  with  all,  perhaps  bits  of 
brightness  too,  —  a  touch  of  rose-color  here, 
and  a  hint  of  gold  there  —  such  as  a  sweet 
woman  weaves  into  the  grayest  fabric  of  life. 

Miss  Judy,  sighing  again,  although  she  could 
72 


An  Unconscious  Philosopher 

not  have  told  why  she  always  sighed  on  entering 
the  darkened  parlor,  now  knelt  down  beside  the 
sofa,  and  drew  a  small  box  from  beneath  it.  But 
she  did  not  open  the  box  at  once ;  instead,  she 
seated  herself  on  the  floor  and  sat  still  for  a  space 
holding  the  box  in  her  hand,  as  if  she  shrank 
from  seeing  its  contents.  At  length,  slowly  un 
tying  the  discolored  cord  that  bound  the  box, 
she  lifted  the  cover,  and  took  out  a  pair  of  satin 
slippers.  They  had  once  been  white,  but  they 
were  now  as  yellow  as  old  ivory,  and  the  narrow 
ribbon  intended  to  cross  over  the  instep  and  to  tie 
around  the  ankle  had  deepened  almost  into  the 
tint  of  the  withered  primrose.  The  slippers  were, 
heel-less,  and  altogether  of  an  antiquated  fashion, 
but  Miss  Judy  did  not  know  that  they  were.  She 
was  doubtful  only  about  the  size,  for  they  seemed 
very  small  even  to  her ;  and  she  thought,  with 
tender  pride,  how  much  taller  Doris  was  than  she 
had  ever  been,  even  before  she  had  begun  to  stoop 
a  little  in  the  shoulders.  Turning  the  slippers  this 
way  and  that,  she  regarded  them  anxiously,  with 
her  curly  head  on  one  side,  until  she  at  last  made 
up  her  mind  that  Doris  could  wear  them.  They 
might  be  rather  a  snug  fit,  but  they  would  stay 
on,  while  Doris  was  dancing,  all  the  better  for 
fitting  snugly.  Yet  Miss  Judy  still  sat  motion 
less,  holding  the  slippers,  and  looking  down  at 
them,  long  after  reaching  this  conclusion.  The 
most  unselfish  of  women,  she  was,  neverthe 
less,  a  truly  womanly  woman.  She  could  not 
surrender  the  last  symbol  of  a  wasted  youth 
without  many  lingering  pangs. 

73 


VI 

LYNN    GORDON 

THE  slippers  had  belonged  to  a  white  dress 
which  Miss  Judy  used  to  call  her  book-muslin 
party  coat,  and  this  treasure  was  already  in 
Doris's  possession.  It  had  been  very  fine  in 
its  first  soft  whiteness,  and  now,  mellowed  by 
time,  as  the  slippers  were,  into  the  hue  of  old 
ivory,  and  darned  all  over,  it  was  like  some  rare 
and  exquisite  old  lace.  Doris  thought  it  the 
prettiest  thing  that  she  had  ever  seen  ;  certainly 
it  was  the  prettiest  that  she  had  ever  owned. 
When,  therefore,  the  slippers  came  to  join  it  as 
a  complete  surprise,  she  took  the  party  coat  out 
of  its  careful  wrappings,  and,  after  a  close  search, 
was  delighted  to  find  one  or  two  gauzy  spaces 
still  undarned.  It  was  a  delight  merely  to  touch 
the  old  muslin.  She  held  it  against  her  cheek 
—  which  was  softer  and  fairer  still,  though 
Doris  thought  nothing  of  that  —  giving  it  a 
loving  little  pat  before  laying  it  down.  There 
were  household  duties  to  be  done  ere  Doris 
would  be  free  to  get  her  invisible  needle  and  her 
gossamer  thread,  and  to  begin  the  airy  weaving 
of  the  cobwebs. 

There  was  only  one  room  and  a  loft  to  be 
put  in  order,  but  Doris  always  did  it  while  her 

74 


Lynn  Gordon 

mother  was  busy  in  the  kitchen,  getting  ready 
for  the  day's  professional  round.  Sidney  was 
exceedingly  particular  about  the  cleaning  of  her 
house,  insisting  that  the  "  rising  sun  "  of  the  red 
and  yellow  calico  quilt  should  always  be  pre 
cisely  in  the  middle  of  the  feather  bed,  and  that 
the  gorgeous  border  of  sun-rays  should  be  even 
all  around  the  edges.  The  long,  narrow  pillow 
cases,  ruffled  across  the  ends,  must  also  hang 
just  so  far  down  the  bed's  sides  —  and  no  far 
ther.  The  home-made  rug,  too,  had  its  exact 
place,  and  there  must  never  be  a  speck  of  dust 
anywhere. 

The  house  was  said  to  be  the  cleanest  in 
Oldfield,  where  all  the  houses  were  clean. 
Some  people  believed  that  Sidney  scrubbed 
the  log  walls  inside  and  outside  every  spring, 
before  whitewashing  them  within  and  without. 
Be  that  as  it  may,  the  poor  home  had,  at  all 
events,  the  fresh  neatness  which  invests  even 
poverty  with  refinement. 

Doris  slighted  nothing  that  morning,  although 
she  was  naturally  impatient  to  go  back  to  the 
book-muslin.  Yet  it  seemed  to  take  longer  to 
get  the  house  in  perfect  order  than  ever  before. 
The  trundle-bed  in  which  Kate  and  Billy  slept 
was  particularly  contrary,  and  it  really  looked, 
for  a  time,  as  if  Doris  would  never  be  able  to 
get  it  entirely  out  of  sight  under  the  big  bed.  It 
was  settled  at  last,  however,  and  she  had  taken 
up  the  party  coat  and  had  seated  herself  beside 
the  window,  when  her  mother  entered  the  room. 

Sidney  cast  a  sharp  glance  at  the  white  cotton, 
75 


Oldfield 

window  curtain  to  see  if  it  were  drawn  exactly 
to  the  middle  of  the  middle  pane,  or  rather  to 
the  hair  line,  which  the  middle  of  the  middle 
pane  would  have  reached,  had  Doris  not  put  the 
sash  up.  Sidney,  rigid  in  her  rudimentary  ideas 
of  propriety,  considered  it  improper  for  a  young 
girl  to  sit  unshielded  before  a  window  in  full  view 
from  the  highway.  It  made  no  difference  to 
Sidney  that  nobody  ever  passed  the  window, 
except  as  the  neighbors  went  to  and  fro,  or  an 
occasional  farmer  came  to  the  village  on  business. 
Sidney  was  firm,  and  Doris,  the  gentle  and  yield 
ing,  did  as  she  was  told  to  do.  The  coarse 
white  curtain  was  accordingly  now  in  its  proper 
place.  Sidney  noted  the  fact,  as  she  cast  a  sweep 
ing  glance  around  the  room,  seeking  the  speck 
of  dust  which  she  seldom  found  and  which  never 
escaped  her  keen  eyes.  Doris  put  the  book- 
muslin  aside  and  arose  as  her  mother  came  in, 
and  she  now  stood  awaiting  directions  for  the 
management  of  the  household  during  the  day. 
Sidney's  professional  absences  lasted  from  nine 
in  the  morning  until  six  in  the  evening  every 
day,  winter  and  summer,  the  whole  year  round, 
Sunday  alone  excepted.  During  these  pro 
longed  absences  the  care  of  the  family  rested 
upon  Doris's  young  shoulders,  and  had  done  so 
ever  since  she  could  remember.  It  may  have 
been  this  which  gave  her  the  little  air  of  dignity 
which  set  so  charmingly  on  her  radiant  youth. 
She  now  listened  to  her  mother's*  directions, 
gravely,  attentively,  respectfully,  as  she  always 
did. 


Lynn  Gordon 

"  Everything  is  spick  and  span  in  the  kitchen," 
Sidney  said,  setting  the  broom  on  end  behind 
the  door  and  rolling  down  the  sleeves  over  her 
strong  arms.  "  Make  the  children  stay  in  the 
back  yard  till  the  school  bell  rings.  Don't  let 
them  go  in  the  kitchen.  They  clutter  up  things 
like  two  little  pigs.  And  don't  let  them  get  at 
the  cake  that  Anne  Watson  sent.  We'll  keep 
that  for  Sunday  dinner.  It's  mighty  light  and 
nice.  It  lays  awful  heavy  on  my  conscience, 
though.  I  really  ought  to  go  to  see  poor  Tom 
this  very  day.  I  ought  to  go  there  every  day 
and  try  to  cheer  him  up.  But  I've  got  so  many 
places  engaged  that  I  actually  don't  know  where 
to  go  first.  Remember — don't  let  the  children 
touch  the  cake.  Give  'em  a  slice  apiece  of 
that  pie  of  Miss  Pettus's.  And  there  will  be 
plenty  of  Kitty  Mills's  cold  ham  for  them  and 
for  Uncle  Watty  too." 

"  Yes'm,"  answered  Doris,  assenting  to  every 
thing  which  her  mother  told  her  to  do  or  not  to 
do.  Trained  by  Miss  Judy,  she  would  no  more 
have  thought  of  speaking  to  an  older  person  or 
to  any  one  whom  she  respected,  without  saying 
"sir"  or  "madam,"  than  a  well-bred  French  girl 
would  think  of  doing  such  a  thing.  Miss  Judy 
and  Doris  had  never  heard  of  its  being  "  servile  " 
to  do  this.  They  both  considered  it  an  essential 
part  of  good  manners  and  gentle  breeding. 
Many  old-fashioned  folks  in  the  Pennyroyal 
Region  still  think  so. 

Untying  her  gingham  apron,  and  hanging 
it  beside  the  broom,  Sidney  put  on  her  sun- 

77 


Oldfield 

bonnet,  and,  firmly  settling  her  ball  of  yarn  under 
her  left  arm,  began  to  knit  as  she  left  the  door 
step  on  which  Doris  stood  looking  after  her. 

Sidney  paused  for  a  moment  at  the  gate  after 
dropping  the  loop  of  string  over  the  post,  and 
looked  up  at  the  little  window  in  the  loft. 

"  It  would,  I  reckon,  be  better  to  let  your 
Uncle  Watty  sleep  as  long  as  he  likes.  He's 
kinder  out  of  the  way  up  there,  and  better  off 
asleep  than  awake,  poor  soul,  when  he  hasn't 
got  any  red  cedar  to  whittle.  I  noticed  yester 
day  that  he  had  whittled  up  his  last  stick.  He 
never  knows  what  to  do  with  himself  when  he's 
out  of  cedar.  I'll  try  to  get  him  some.  Maybe 
old  lady  Gordon's  black  gardener  Enoch  Cotton 
will  fetch  some  from  the  woods,  if  I  promise  to 
knit  him  a  pair  of  socks." 

An  expression  flitted  over  Doris's  face,  telling 
her  thoughts.  Sidney,  seeing  it,  felt  in  duty 
bound  to  rebuke  it. 

"  Now,  Doris  —  mind  what  I  say  —  as  young 
folks  do  old  folks,  so  other  young  folks  will  do 
them  when  their  turn  comes.  ^  I  never  knew  it 
to  fail.  We  all  get  what  we  give,  no  more,  no 
less.  It  always  works  even  in  the  end,  though 
it  may  not  seem  so  as  we  go  along.  See  that 
your  Uncle  Watty's  breakfast  is  real  nice  and 
hot.  Make  him  some  milk  toast  out  of  Mrs. 
Alexander's  salt-rising  —  if  it's  too  hard  for  his 
gums.  Old  lady  Gordon  said  she  would  have 
Eunice  fetch  me  a  bucket  of  milk  every  day. 
You  won't  forget  ?  " 

Doris  again  said  "yes,  ma'am  "and  "no,  ma'am" 
78 


Lynn  Gordon 

in  the  proper  place,  listening  throughout  with 
the  greatest  attention  and  respect,  and  trying 
very  hard  not  to  think  about  the  book-muslin 
party  coat. 

Sidney  twitched  the  string  which  held  the  gate 
to  the  post,  to  make  sure  that  it  was  firmly  tied. 
"That  crumpled-horn  of  Colonel  Fielding's  could 
pick  a  lock  with  her  horns.  Now  remember 
about  Uncle  Watty.  He's  had  a  hard  time, 
poor  old  man,  ever  since  his  leg  was  broken. 
If  Dr.  Alexander  had  been  here,  it  would  have 
been  different.  I  should  just  like  to  give  that 
fool  of  a  travelling  doctor  a  piece  of  my  mind. 
Him  a-pretending  to  know  what  he  was  about, 
and  a-setting  your  poor  Uncle  Watty's  broken 
leg  east  and  west,  instead  of  north  and  south  !  " 

Doris's  cheek  dimpled,  but  she  answered  duti 
fully  as  before.  She  had  her  own  opinion  as  to 
how  much  the  latitude  or  longitude  of  Uncle 
Watty's  left  leg  had  to  do  with  his  general  dis 
ability.  She  could  remember  him  before  the 
leg  was  broken,  and  she  had  never  known  him 
to  do  anything  except  whittle  a  stick  of  red  cedar. 
Youth,  at  its  gentlest,  is  apt  to  be  hard  in  its 
judgment  of  age's  shortcomings.  Doris  knew 
how  good  her  mother  was  as  she  watched  her 
walking  down  the  big  road,  with  her  long,  free, 
swinging  stride,  with  her  sunbonnet  on  the 
back  of  her  head,  and  her  knitting-needles  flash 
ing  in  the  sun.  But  she  wondered  if  there 
were  no  other  way.  She  hated  to  see  her  set  out 
on  these  rounds,  she  had  hated  it  ever  since  she 
could  remember,  and  had  gone  on  hating  it  as 

79 


Oldfield 

vehemently  as  it  was  in  her  gentle  nature  to 
hate  anything.  The  mother  never  had  been 
able  to  make  Doris  see  from  her  own  point  of 
view,  and  Doris  had  never  been  able  to  make 
her  mother  understand  the  intensity  of  her  own 
sensitiveness,  or  the  soreness  of  her  silent  pride. 
Many  a  day,  as  Doris  sat  sewing  beside  the 
window  in  seeming  contentment,  she  was  rest 
lessly  seeking  some  means  of  escape ;  almost 
continually  she  was  trying  to  find  a  way  to  lift 
the  burden  from  her  mother  —  striving  to  see 
something  wholly  different  that  she  herself  might 
do.  Going  back  to  her  book-muslin  on  that  morn 
ing,  she  was  wondering  whether  Mrs.  Watson  or 
Mrs.  Alexander  might  not  need  some  needle 
work  done.  Perhaps  she  could  earn  a  little 
money  in  that  way,  and  they  could  live  on  very 
little.  But  hers  was  not  a  brooding  disposition, 
and  she  was  soon  singing  over  the  old  party 
coat.  Then  the  school  bell  reminded  her 
that  the  children's  faces  and  hands  must  be 
washed  before  they  went  to  school ;  and  by  the 
time  they  were  sent  off  down  the  big  road,  Uncle 
Watty  was  ready  for  his  breakfast.  Doris  car 
ried  out  her  mother's  directions  to  the  letter. 
She  poured  his  coffee,  and  sat  respectfully  wait 
ing  until  he  had  finished  eating,  and  then  she 
washed  the  dishes,  and  put  them  away. 

Returning  to  her  seat  by  the  window,  she 
glanced  now  and  then  at  Uncle  Watty,  who  had 
seated  himself  under  the  blossoming  plum  tree 
to  enjoy  a  leisurely,  luxurious  pipe  of  tobacco, 
having  recently  swapped  a  butter  paddle,  which 

80 


Lynn  Gordon 

he  had  whittled  out  of  red  cedar,  for  a  fine  old 
"  hand "  of  the  precious  weed.  It  was,  how 
ever,  most  unusual  for  Uncle  Watty's  whittling 
to  assume  any  useful  shape,  or,  indeed,  any 
shape  at  all.  Every  morning,  except  Sunday, 
he  hobbled  off  down  the  big  road,  to  take  his 
seat  before  the  store  door  on  an  empty  goods- 
box,  with  his  pocket-knife  and  his  stick  of  red 
cedar,  ready  for  whittling.  Year  after  year,  the 
box  and  Uncle  Watty  were  always  in  the  same 
spot,  moving  only  to  follow  the  sun  in  winter 
and  the  shade  in  summer;  and  the  heap  of 
red  cedar  shavings  always  grew  steadily,  ever 
undisturbed  save  as  the  winds  scattered  them, 
and  the  rains  beat  them  into  the  earth.  When 
Uncle  Watty  finally  came  hobbling  around  the 
corner  of  the  house  that  day,  and  went  away  in 
the  direction  of  the  store,  Doris  looked  after 
him,  wondering  —  rather  carelessly,  and  a  little 
harshly,  after  the  manner  of  the  young  and 
untried  —  what  could  be  the  meaning  of  an 
existence  which  left  a  trail  of  red  cedar  shav 
ings  as  the  sole  mark  of  its  path  through  life. 
But  that  perplexing  thought  also  passed  as 
the  other  had  done.  She  began  thinking  of 
the  dancing  lessons,  growing  more  and  more 
absorbed  in  the  darning  of  the  party  coat.  She 
wished  she  knew  whether  Miss  Judy  had  ever 
worn  it  to  a  real  dancing  party.  She  had  never 
heard  of  one's  being  given  in  Oldfielcl,  excepting 
of  course  the  famous  ball  at  the  Fielding's,  near 
the  jail,  on  the  night  that  the  prisoner  escaped ; 
long,  long  before  she  was  born.  Most  of  the  Old- 
G  81 


Oldfield 

field  people  thought  it  a  sin  to  dance.  Miss  Judy 
must  have  looked  very  pretty  in  the  book-muslin. 
Doris  laid  it  on  her  lap,  and,  turning  to  the  win 
dow,  gave  the  curtain  an  impatient  toss,  pushing 
it  to  one  side.  There  was  no  use  in  keeping 
it  half  drawn  when  never  a  soul  ever  went  by. 
And  the  sun  was  shining,  almost  with  the 
warmth  of  midsummer,  on  this  glorious  May-day. 
When  the  spring  was  still  farther  advanced, 
when  the  leaves  were  larger  on  the  two  tall 
silver  poplars  standing  beside  the  gate,  lifting 
a  shimmering  white  screen  from  the  soft  green 
earth  to  the  softer  blue  sky;  when  the  climb 
ing  roses,  already  blooming  all  over  the  snowy 
walls,  were  more  thickly  festooned ;  when  the 
Italian  honeysuckle  hung  its  rich  bronze  gar 
lands  and  its  fragrant  bloom  from  the  very  eaves 
of  the  mossy  roof  —  then  Doris  might  push  the 
curtain  farther  back,  but  not  befpre,  no  matter 
how  brilliantly  the  sun  shone  or  how  entirely 
deserted  the  big  road  was.  As  Doris  sat  sewing 
and  thinking,  it  seemed  to  her  that  her  mother 
was  unnecessarily  strict.  She  had  even  thought 
it  wrong  to  allow  her  to  learn  to  dance.  Miss 
Judy  had  found  much  difficulty  in  persuading 
her.  However,  she  had  consented  at  last,  and 
presently  Doris,  all  alone  in  the  old  house,  be 
gan  singing  blithely,  oblivious  of  everything  ex 
cept  the  anticipation  of  the  dancing  lessons  and 
the  pleasure  of  darning  the  party  coat.  The  song 
was  one  of  Allan  Ramsay's,  a  languishing  love- 
song  which  Miss  Judy's  mother  had  sung.  But  as 
Doris's  thoughts  danced  to  inaudible  music,  and 

82 


Lynn  Gordon 

her  needle  flew  daintily  in  and  out  of  the  soft 
old  muslin,  the  words  and  the  tune  soon  tripped 
to  a  gayer  measure  than  they  had,  perhaps, 
ever  known  before. 

The  birds,  too,  were  lilting  gayly  on  that  per 
fect  May  morning.  A  couple  of  flycatchers  were 
breakfasting  in  mid-air.  Happily  as  if  sipping 
nectar  from  the  dewy  atmosphere,  ethereally  ar, 
if  gathering  ambrosia  from  the  dawn-tinted 
clouds,  they  flashed  blithely  hither  and  thither, 
innocently  destroying  other  innocent  winged 
creatures,  according  to  nature's  merciless  plan. 
And  the  flycatcher  was  but  one  of  many 
beautiful  melodious  creatures  thronging  be 
tween  heaven  and  earth.  Brown  thrashers  by 
twos  and  fours  flitted  back  and  forth  across  the 
big  road,  leaving  one  green  wheat-field  for 
another  of  still  richer  verdure.  A  happy  pair 
of  orioles,  flashing  orange  and  black,  were  dart 
ing —  bright  as  flame  and  light  as  smoke  — 
through  the  tallest  silver  poplar,  building  an  air- 
castle  almost  as  wonderful,  and  nearly  as  fragile, 
as  those  that  young  human  lovers  build.  With 
the  fetching  of  each  fine  fibre,  the  husband  fairly 
turned  upside  down,  and  hung  by  his  feet,  while 
singing  his  pride  and  delight.  The  wife,  more 
modestly  happy,  quietly  rested  her  soft  breast  on 
the  unstable  nest  —  with  all  a  woman's  trust  — 
as  though  the  home  were  founded  upon  a  rock, 
as  all  homes  should  be,  and  hung  not  by  a  frail 
thread  at  the  hazardous  tip  of  an  unsteady  bough 
as  —  alas  !  —  so  many  homes  do.  It  was  steady 
enough  just  now,  when  love  was  new  and  the 

83 


Oldfield 

spring  was  mild,  and  only  the  southern  breeze 
stirred  the  white-lined  leaves  with  a  silken  rustle. 
The  soft  cooing  of  the  unseen  doves  sounded  far 
off.  The  bees  merely  murmured  among  the 
honeysuckle  blooms.  The  humming-bird,  which 

J  O 

was  raying  rubies  and  emeralds  from  the  hearts 
of  the  roses,  came  and  went  as  softly  as  the  south 
wind. 

Doris  smiled  at  the  sylvan  housekeeping  of 
the  orioles,  which  she  watched  for  awhile,  let 
ting  her  sewing  rest  on  her  lap.  But  tiring 
soon  of  the  little  drama  of  the  silver  poplar,  as 
we  always  tire  of  the  happiness  of  others,  the  girl's 
eyes  wandered  wistfully  through  the  fragrant 
loneliness  to  the  wooded  hills  which  gently  folded 
the  drowsy  village.  The  trees,  delicately  green, 
almost  silver  gray,  in  their  tender  foliage,  were 
still  fringed  by  the  snow  of  the  dogwood,  and 
the  misty  beauty  of  the  red  buds ;  and  the  cool, 
leafy  vistas,  sloping  gently  down  toward  the  vil 
lage,  met  the  sea  of  blossoming  orchards,  break 
ing  in  wide,  deep  waves  of  pink  and  white  foam 
at  the  foot  of  the  hills.  But  Doris  had  seen 
those  same  trees,  and  hillsides,  and  orchards 
every  May-time  of  her  eighteen  years,  and 
sameness,  however  grateful  to  older  eyes,  has 
never  a  great  charm  for  youth. 

Doris's  eyes  came  back  to  the  book-muslin 
with  a  keener  interest.  As  she  sat  there,  sew 
ing  and  singing,  in  the  soft  light  that  filtered 
through  the  old  curtain,  the  girl  was  beautiful, 
almost  tragically  beautiful,  for  her  uncertain 
place  in  the  world.  Her  slender  throat,  like  the 

84 


Lynn  Gordon 

stem  of  a  white  flower,  arose  from  the  faded  brown 
of  her  dress  as  an  Easter  lily  unfolds  from  its  dull 
sheath.  Her  radiant  hair,  yellow  as  new-blown 
marigolds,  clustered  thick  and  soft  about  her  fair 
forehead,  as  the  rich  pollen  falls  on  the  lily's 
satin.  Her  delicate  brows  were  dark  and 
straight ;  and  her  curling  lashes,  darker  still, 
threw  bewitching  shadows  around  her  large, 
brown  eyes.  Her  face  was  pale  with  a  warm 
pallor  infinitely  fairer  than  any  mere  fairness. 
Her  lips,  which  were  a  little  full,  but  exquisite 
in  shape  and  sweetness,  were  tinted  as  deli 
cately  as  blush  roses.  Her  small,  white 
hands,  with  their  rosy  palms  and  tapering 
fingers,  bore  no  traces  of  hard  work.  But 
Doris  was  not  thinking  of  her  hands  as,  with 
out  turning  her  head,  she  put  out  one  of  them 
for  another  length  of  thread.  The  spool 
was  a  very  small  one,  and  it  stood  rather  un 
steadily  on  the  uneven  ledge  of  the  window, 
and  it  rolled  when  Doris  touched  it.  Instinc 
tively  she  tried  to  catch  it,  and  to  keep  it 
from  falling  to  the  ground  outside  the  window. 
She  had  been  reared  to  neatness  and  order, 
and  to  economy  which  valued  even  a  reel  of 
cotton  too  much  to  see  it  needlessly  soiled. 
Of  course  Doris  tried  to  catch  the  falling  spool, 
—  and  that  was  the  way  everything  began  !  It 
was  all  as  simple  and  natural  and  purely  acci 
dental  as  anything  could  have  been.  And  yet 
at  the  same  time  it  was  one  of  those  inscrutable 
happenings  which  make  the  steadiest  of  us 
seem  but  feathers  in  the  wind  of  destiny. 

85 


Oldfield 

Only  a  moment  before  that  foolish  little  spool 
began  to  roll,  the  big  road  seemed  entirely 
deserted.  Not  a  human  being  was  in  sight  — 
Doris  was  sure  that  there  was  not,  because  she 
had  looked  and  looked  in  vain,  and  had  longed 
and  longed  that  there  might  be.  Neverthe 
less,  as  the  little  reel  started  to  fall,  and  Dons 
darted  after  it  as  suddenly  and  swiftly  as  a 
swallow,  there  was  a  young  man  on  horseback 
directly  in  front  of  the  window,  appearing  as 
strangely  and  as  unexpectedly  as  if  he  had  sprung 
out  of  the  earth.  And,  moreover,  he  was  looking 
straight  at  Doris,  with  hardly  more  than  a  couple 
of  rods  between  them,  when  she  burst  into  full 
view  in  the  broad  light  of  day,  appearing  like  some 
beautiful  bacchante.  The  white  curtain  fell  be 
hind  her  radiant  head  as  the  breeze  caught  and 
loosed  the  golden  strands  of  her  hair,  and  the  sun 
flashed  a  greater  radiance  upon  its  dazzling 
crown.  She  saw  him,  too,  with  a  startled  uplift 
ing  of  her  great  shadowy  dark  eyes  as  she  bent 
forward  —  while  her  exquisite  face  was  still  smil 
ing  at  her  own  innocent  thoughts,  and  her  rose- 
red  lips  were  still  a  little  apart  with  the  singing 
of  the  old  love-song. 

The  white  curtain  then  swung  again  into  place. 
It  was  full  of  thin  spots  which  Doris  could  see 
through ;  but  she  was  so  startled,  and  her  heart 
was  beating  so  fast  at  first,  that  she  shrunk  back 
without  trying  to  look.  How  right  her  mother 
had  been,  after  all.  That  was  her  first  feeling. 
When  she  recovered  self-possession  enough  to 
peep  out,  she  saw  that  the  young  man's  horse 

86 


Lynn  Gordon 

was  curveting  back  and  forth  across  the  big 
road  in  a  most  alarming  manner.  This  con 
tinued  for  a  surprising  length  of  time  before 
Doris  observed  that,  whenever  the  horse  seemed 
about  to  stop,  the  rider  touched  him  with  the 
spur.  Such  a  flash  of  indignation  went  over 
Doris  then  as  quite  swept  away  the  last  trace 
of  embarrassment.  How  could  he  do  such  a 
cruel  and  such  a  meaningless  thing!  She  won- 

O  O 

dered  still  more  why  he  dismounted,  and,  throw 
ing  the  bridle  reins  over  his  arm,  began  walking 
up  and  down  in  front  of  the  window,  gazing 
closely  at  the  ground  as  though  looking  for 
something  that  he  had  lost.  Doris  noticed  that 
he  glanced  at  the  window  every  time  he  passed 
it,  and  she  knew  that  she  ought  to  go  out  and  help 
him  find  what  he  had  lost.  That  was  a  matter 
of  course  in  Oldfield  manners.  It  is  the  way  of 
most  country  people  to  take  a  keen  and  helpful 
interest  in  everything  that  a  neighbor  does  ;  and 
city  people  deserve  less  credit  than  they  claim 
for  their  indifference  to  their  neighbor's  affairs, 
which  is  too  often  mere  selfishness  disguised. 
Notwithstanding  this  local  social  law  Doris  did 
not  stir,  held  motionless  by  an  influence  which 
she  could  not  understand.  She  had  known  at 
once  who  the  young  man  was.  Too  few  stran 
gers  came  to  Oldfield  for  her  to  fail  to  place  him 
immediately  as  the  grandson  of  old  lady  Gordon, 
the  young  gentleman  from  Boston,  whose  com 
ing  everybody  was  talking  about.  She  noted 
through  the  worn  places  in  the  old  curtain  how 
tall  he  was  and  how  dark  and  how  handsome. 

87 


She  could  not  decide  what  kind  of  clothes  his 
riding  clothes  were.  At  last  he  mounted  his 
horse  and  galloped  up  the  hill,  and  then  Doris 
returned  serenely  to  the  darning  of  the  book- 
muslin  party  coat. 


88 


VII 

THE  DOCTOR'S  DILEMMA 

WITHIN  the  hour  Lynn  Gordon  rode  back 
down  the  hill,  and  passed  the  window  very 
slowly,  watching  the  curtain  as  a  star-gazer 
awaits  the  passing  of  a  cloud. 

The  baffling  width  of  white  cotton  hung  still 
unstirred ;  Doris  was  no  longer  sitting  behind 
it,  but  the  young  man  had  no  means  of  know 
ing  that  she  had  gone.  As  the  hand  on  the 
reins  unconsciously  drew  the  horse  almost  to 
a  standstill,  the  doctor  and  his  wife  left  their 
seats  on  the  porch  of  their  house  over  the  way, 
and  came  out  to  the  gate  to  speak  to  him. 
They  had  met  him  at  his  grandmother's  on  the 
previous  evening,  and  they  had  been  old  friends 
of  his  father.  Lynn  sprang  from  the  saddle 
and,  leading  his  horse,  crossed  the  big  road  to 
shake  hands  with  them. 

"  Have  you  lost  something  ?  "  asked  Mrs. 
Alexander. 

"  Oh,  no  —  yes  —  I  have  lost  a  jewel  —  a 
pearl,"  the  young  man  replied  rashly. 

The  doctor's  lady  exclaimed  in  surprise. 
Jewels  were  rarely  lost  or  found  in  that  coun 
try.  The  gems  oftenest  lost  were  the  spark 
ling  seeds  which  flashed  out  of  the  jewel-weed ; 


Oldfield 

the  finest  pearls  ever  found  were  those  which 
the  mistletoe  bore. 

"  Dear  me,  what  a  pity,"  lamented  Mrs.  Alex 
ander.  "  And  how  was  your  pearl  set  ?  " 

4i  It  wasn't  mine.  I  didn't  notice  how  it  was 
set.  Oh,  yes,  I  did.  It  was  set  amid  roses 
and  honeysuckle  and  humming-birds  against  a 
field  of  spotless  snow,"  Lynn  said,  still  more 
lightly. 

The  doctor's  wife  was  not  a  dull  woman.  She 
understood  his  tone,  though  she  did  not  under 
stand  what  he  meant.  She  had  been  eagerly 
scanning  the  big  road,  as  far  as  she  could  see  ; 
thinking  that  a  jewel  dropped  near  by  on  the 
highway  —  unrolling  like  a  broad  band  of  brown 
velvet  from  the  far  green  hills  on  the  north  to  the 
farther  green  hills  on  the  south  —  must  sparkle 
and  flash,  showing  a  long  way  off  in  such  bril 
liant  sunshine.  Now,  however,  she  knew  that 
Lynn  was  not  in  earnest,  and  she  turned  with 
a  smile  on  her  own  face  to  meet  the  laughing 
frankness  of  his  fine  dark  eyes.  But  a  glance 
was  just  passing  between  the  young  man  and  the 
older  man,  and  she  caught  that  also,  with  the 
vague,  helpless  uneasiness,  tinged  with  resent 
ment,  which  every  woman  feels  at  seeing  a  sign 
of  the  freemasonry  of  men. 

But  a  doctor's  wife  learns  to  overlook  a  good 
many  things  which  she  would  like  to  have  ex 
plained,  if  she  be  a  sensible  woman,  as  Mrs. 
Alexander  was.  This  one  merely  said :  — 

"  You  are  a  joker,  I  see,  as  your  father  was. 
Nobody  ever  could  tell  when  he  was  serious. 

90 


The  Doctor's  Dilemma 

Come  in  and  sit  with  us.  It's  nice  and  cool 
these  early  mornings  on  the  porch.  Tie  your 
horse  to  the  fence.  I  thought  when  I  saw  you 
getting  down  from  the  saddle,  that  you  meant 
to  hitch  him  to  Sidney's,  and  I  was  just  going 
to  call  and  ask  you  to  tie  him  to  ours  instead. 
The  doctor's  horses  pull  boards  off  our  fences 
every  day,  but  it  doesn't  matter,  because  he 
keeps  somebody  to  nail  them  on  again ;  while 
Sidney  has  nobody  but  herself  to  depend  upon." 

"And  even  the  resourceful  Sidney  —  being 
a  woman  —  can't  drive  a  nail,"  remarked  the 
doctor,  deliberately. 

He  knew  how  well  worn  the  truism  was,  but 
he  used  it  designedly,  as  a  toreador  uses  his 
scarf.  He  liked  to  see  his  wife  flare  up.  Her 
kind  eyes  grew  so  bright  and  her  wholesome 
cheeks  so  red,  and  it  was  always  so  delightfully 
easy  to  get  her  in  a  good  humor  again.  It  is 
a  tendency  which  is  very  common  in  large  men 
with  amiable  little  wives  like  Mrs.  Alexander, 
and  one  which  is  very  uncommon  in  smaller 
men  with  wives  of  a  different  disposition. 

Lynn  Gordon,  as  an  unmarried  man,  naturally 
knew  nothing  of  these  matters  and  blundered 
on,  disappointing  the  doctor's  confident  expec 
tations  by  asking  the  lady  a  question,  which 
turned  her  attention  in  another  direction.  He 
inquired  who  Sidney  was,  seeing  an  opportunity 
for  learning  something  about  the  girl  behind 
the  silver  poplars. 

There  was  no  subject  upon  which  Mrs.  Alex 
ander  was  more  willing  to  talk,  nor  one  upon 

91 


Oldfield 

which  she  could  talk  more  eloquently,  and  she 
accordingly  began  at  once  to  give  Lynn  the 
history  of  Sidney  Wendall,  whom  she  held  to 
be  a  most  interesting  as  well  as  a  most  admi 
rable  and  remarkable  character.  It  was  no  easy 
or  simple  thing,  so  the  doctor's  wife  said,  for  a 
woman  of  the  Pennyroyal  Region  to  earn  a 
family's  living.  In  that  country  no  white 
woman  could  work  outside  her  own  home  (were 
there  anything  for  her  to  do)  on  account  of  com 
ing  into  competition  with  black  laborers.  And 
Sidney  had  received  no  training  to  lift  her  above 
the  laboring  class,  having  had  even  less  than 
the  average  country  education.  And  yet,  as  the 
doctor's  wife  pointed  out,  she  had  managed  to 
maintain  her  family  and  herself  in  reasonable 
comfort  and  universal  respect.  It  was  all  very 
well  for  the  men  to  laugh  at  Sidney  and  make 
fun  of  her  news  and  her  gossip.  It  was  all 
very  well  for  them  to  say  —  as  the  doctor  said, 
according  to  his  wife,  who  flashed  her  eyes  at 
him — that  Sidney  made  her  news  out  of  the 
whole  cloth  when  she  did  not  get  it  over  the 
grapevine  telegraph.  Everybody  knew  how 
hard  men  always  were  on  any  woman  who  was 
not  pretty.  As  though  poor  Sidney  could  help 
the  length  of  her  own  nose !  Let  the  mean 
men  make  fun  as  much  as  they  pleased  !  The 
indignant  lady  would  like,  so  she  said,  to  see 
one  of  them  who  had  done  his  duty  in  the 
world  more  nobly  than  Sidney  had  done  hers. 
She  would  also  like,  so  she  declared,  to  see  one 
of  them  who  kept  as  strict  guard  over  what  he 

92 


The  Doctor's  Dilemma 

said  about  his  neighbors,  and  who  was  as  free 
from  evil-speaking  and  mischief-making,  as 
Sidney  was  —  for  all  her  talking  that  they  were 
always  so  ready  to  ridicule. 

The  doctor  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  beaming 
at  his  wife.  He  was  very  proud  of  her  when 
she  talked  and  looked  as  she  was  doing  now, 
and  he  was  truly  sorry  when  she  was  compelled 
to  pause  for  sheer  lack  of  breath. 

"  I  am  afraid  I  don't  know  the  lady  of  whom 
you  are  speaking,"  Lynn  said,  as  soon  as  he  had 
a  chance  to  speak.  "  I  haven't  been  here,  you 
know,  since  I  could  remember.  Do  you  mean 
some  one  who  lives  over  there  in  the  house 
behind  those  silver  poplars  ? "  And  then,  he 
added  artfully,  "  It  seems  to  be  deserted." 

"  There  is  where  Sidney  Wendall  lives,  but 
she  is  never  at  home  in  the  daytime.  Her 
business  takes  her  out.  But  Doris,  the  eldest 
daughter,  is  at  home.  She  has  always  taken 
care  of  the  house  and  the  other  children, 
and  even  of  Uncle  Watty.  She  used  to  do  it 
when  she  wasn't  so  high,"  the  doctor's  wife 
said,  holding  her  hand  about  three  feet  from 
the  porch  floor.  "  Such  a  lovely,  golden-haired, 
dark-eyed,  delicate  little  changeling,  in  that 
homely,  rude,  rough-and-tumble  brood." 

"Is  this  beautiful  Doris  a  child  still?"  in 
quired  the  young  man,  deceitfully  leading  on 
nearer  to  what  he  wished  to  learn. 

"  Oh,  no.  I  was  speaking  of  years  ago. 
Doris  is  about  grown  now,  and  prettier  than 
ever.  You'll  be  sure  to  see  her.  There  are  very 

93 


Oldfield 

few  young  ladies  in  Oldfield.  She  seldom  goes 
out,  though.  She  stays  close  at  home  and  takes 
care  of  things  just  as  she  always  has  done.  It 
must  be  a  lonely,  dreary  life  for  a  girl,  —  and 
such  a  beauty  too,  —  but  she  never  seems  to 
mind  it.  I  heard  her  singing  this  morning 
about  the  time  that  you  rode  up." 

"  I  met  Sidney  coming  out  of  the  Watsons' 
gate  when  I  went  in  to  see  Tom  in  passing,"  the 
doctor  said  suddenly,  and  with  a  different  man 
ner.  "  I  wish,  Jane,  that  you  would  ask  Sidney, 
the  first  time  you  see  her,  to  go  there  as  often 
as  she  can.  Send  her  something,  and  tell  her 
that  I  think  her  going  would  cheer  up  Tom." 

"  Indeed !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Alexander,  scath 
ingly.  "  Then  Sidney's'' gab,'  as  you  ungrateful 
men  call  it,  has  its  uses  after  all ! " 

"  I  am  not  jesting  now,  my  dear.  I  am  seri 
ously  disturbed  about  Tom  Watson.  So  far  as 
I  am  able  to  judge,  there  is  nothing  more  that 
surgery  or  medicine  can  do  for  him.  The  time 
has  come,  now  when  we  have  done  our  utmost 
for  his  body,  that  we  must  find  some  relief  for 
his  mind.  He  must  not  be  allowed  to  sit  there 
propped  up  by  the  window,  staring  out  at  the 
big  road,  and  never  trying  to  speak  even  the 
few  indistinct  words  that  he  might  utter,  and 
always  brooding,  brooding — over  his  own  awful 
condition,  I'm  afraid." 

"  Well,  I've  done  what  I  could,"  said  the 
doctor's  wife,  quickly,  as  though  her  husband's 
words  bore  some  unspoken  reproach.  "  I  know 
my  double  duty  to  a  neighbor  and  a  patient  of 

94 


The  Doctor's  Dilemma 

yours,  John.  But  I  can't  go  to  see  Tom  Watson 
again.  You  never  saw  such  a  sad  sight,  Mr. 
Gordon.  I  actually  dream  about  it  after  I  have 
seen  him.  That  is  where  the  Watsons  live," 
she  said,  pointing  to  the  house.  "  I  go  every 
morning  to  the  cross  fence  between  our  house 
and  theirs,  taking  some  little  thing  for  Tom  just 
to  show  that  I  have  been  thinking  about  him, 
and  I  call  Anne  to  the  other  side  of  the  fence 
and  ask  her  how  he  is.  But  doing  even  that 
hurts  her  and  hurts  me,  for  she  knows  that  I 
know  that  he  never  can  be  any  better." 

"  And  I  think  he  knows  it  too.  That  is  the 
most  terrible  thing  of  all,"  the  doctor  said, 
musingly,  as  if  turning  over  ways  and  means  in 
his  mind. 

Mrs.  Alexander  looked  at  Lynn  with  a  sud 
den  dimness  shadowing  the  brightness  of  her 
kind  eyes.  "  You  don't  know  the  Oldfield 
people,  Mr.  Gordon,  though  you  are  really  one 
of  us.  Unless  you  had  known  Tom  Watson 
as  we  knew  him,  you  can  hardly  understand 
how  terrible  and  how  strange  his  present  con 
dition  seems  to  us.  He  used  to  be  a  great, 
strong,  noisy,  reckless,  hot-tempered  dare-devil, 
but  as  tender-hearted  as  a  child  and  liked  by 
everybody,  black  and  white,  big  and  little,  in 
the  whole  country." 

A  sudden  recollection  caused  her  to  smile  at 
her  husband,  forgetting  that  she  had  just  been 
scolding  him  and  that  he  richly  deserved  it :  — 

"  You  remember,  John,  that  time  when  Tom 
kept  those  bear  cubs  tied  up  in  his  back  lot. 

95 


Oldfield 

One  day  the  biggest  of  them  got  loose  and 
caught  Sidney  as  she  was  going  home  with  a 
pitcher  of  milk  which  Anne  had  given  her. 
Sidney  was  almost  scared  out  of  her  wits,  and 
screamed  as  loud  as  she  could,  till  the  bear 
squeezed  her  so  tight  that  she  couldn't  make 
another  sound.  But  she  never  let  go  the  pitcher 
—  never  even  loosed  her  grip  —  and  kept  on 
holding  it  out  of  the  cub's  reach,  long  after  she 
couldn't  scream  any  more.  Tom  went  running. 
Can't  you  see  him  now,  John  ?  and  hear  him 
shouting  at  every  jump:  'Let  go,  Sid.  Good 
Gad — woman!  are  you  going  to  let  the  bear 
hug  the  life  out  of  you  before  you'll  give  him 
that  spoonful  of  milk  ? ' 

"And  to  think  of  poor  Tom  as  he  is  now;" 
she  went  on  presently,  the  smile  fading.  "  I  will 
speak  to  Sidney  as  you  suggest,  John.  I  will 
send  her  a  basket  of  sweet  potatoes  and  urge 
her  to  go  as  often  as  she  can.  Anne  would 
never  think  of  asking  any  one  to  come,  but  I 
know  she  would  be  pleased  to  have  Sidney  drop 
in.  She's  always  like  a  fresh  breeze  on  a  hot  day 
even  to  well  folks.  She  told  me,  however,  the 
other  morning  that  Tom  Watson  never  seemed 
to  notice  anything  that  she  had  to  say.  She  said 
that,  no  matter  how  hard  she  tried  to  entertain 
him,  he  kept  on  staring  out  at  the  empty  big 
road,  just  sitting  there,  not  trying  to  speak,  and 
looking  like  a  dead  man  only  for  his  restless, 
burning  eyes." 

"  And  yet  he  may  live  for  years  just  as  he  is 
now,"  the  doctor  said.  "  But  we  must  not  give 

96 


The  Doctor's  Dilemma 

up  trying  to  help  him  because  he  can  never  be 
any  better.  I  must  devise  some  sort  of  relief.  It 
will  not  do  to  let  him  sit  there,  like  that,  all  day, 
day  after  day  —  maybe  for  years.  I  tried  this 
morning  to  find  out  what  he  was  thinking 
about.  I  also  tried  to  learn  from  Anne  what  his 
tastes  were,  what  sort  of  things  he  had  liked  or 
was  interested  in  before  he  met  with  the  acci 
dent.  His  sight  is  much  impaired,  and  he 
seems  never  to  have  been  anything  of  a  reader. 
I  doubt  whether  he  ever  had  any  indoor  inter 
ests,  except  playing  cards.  All  that  I  can 
remember  is  that  he  used  to  gamble  like  the 
very  devil." 

"  Shame  on  you,  John,  to  be  raking  up  that 
against  the  poor  fellow,  as  he  is  now,"  protested 
the  doctor's  wife,  indignantly. 

"  Nonsense  !  Who's  raking  anything  up  ?  " 
the  doctor  responded.  "  I  was  merely  trying 
to  think  of  some  way  of  diverting  his  mind.  I 
thought  perhaps  a  game  of  cards  —  " 

The  doctor's  wife  uttered  a  smothered  little 
shriek:  "John  Alexander!  What  are  you 
thinking  of  to  speak  of  card-playing  in  Anne 
Watson's  house  ?  " 

The  doctor  grew  calmly  judicial,  as  all  good 
husbands  grow  when  their  wives  become  un 
duly  excited.  "  I  am  well  aware  of  Anne's  prej 
udice.  I  know  precisely  how  strong  — " 

"  Strong ! "    repeated    his    wife,    interrupting 

him.      "  It's    the    strongest    thing  —  the    only 

really    strong    thing  —  in    Anne  —  that,    and 

her  religion.     Her  horror  of  card-playing  is  a 

H  97 


Oldfield 

part  of  her  religion.  It's  bred  in  her  bone. 
She  got  it  from  her  father,  the  elder.  Some 
people  thought  he  was  actually  out  of  his  head 
about  cards.  And  Anne  believes  as  firmly  as  he 
believed  it,  that  cards  are  Satan's  chief  weapon, 
and  that  even  to  touch  them  is  to  imperil  the 
soul.  She  believes  it  as  firmly  as  she  believes 
in  baptism  for  the  remission  of  sins ;  as  firmly 
as  she  believes  that  there  is  a  heaven  and  a  hell." 

All  this  breathless  outpouring  the  doctor 
waved  aside :  "  As  I  have  already  said,  my  dear, 
I  know  perfectly  well  what  Anne's  feeling  used 
to  be.  Now,  however,  in  Tom's  hopeless  con 
dition  she  will,  of  course,  look  at  the  matter 
with  more  reason." 

"  Now  isrit  that  like  a  man  ?  "  appealed  Mrs. 
Alexander,  to  no  one  in  particular,  since  she 
could  hardly  appeal  to  her  visitor  against  his 
own  sex.  "Wouldn't  anybody  but  a  man  know 
that  Anne  would  only  stand  the  firmer  for  that 
very  reason  ?  Any  woman  would  see  in  a 
moment  that  the  very  fact  of  Anne's  knowing 
that  her  husband's  mortal  life  was  hopelessly 
wrecked,  could  not  fail  to  increase  her  resist 
ance  against  a  thing  which  she  believes  must 
lose  him  the  life  everlasting." 

The  doctor  took  his  feet  down  from  the  porch 
railing,  and  tapped  his  pipe  against  the  post 
with  an  unnecessary  amount  of  noise.  Lynn 
Gordon  looked  hard  at  the  silver  poplars  on 
the  other  side  of  the  big  road.  Different  men 
have  different  ways  of  giving  outward  expres 
sion  to  the  embarrassment  which  every  man 

98 


The  Doctor's  Dilemma 

feels  at  a  woman's  innocent  frankness  regarding 
spiritual  things.  Neither  of  these  men  spoke 
for  a  space.  The  doctor  was  casting  about  for 
the  surest  and  swiftest  way  of  fetching  his  wife 
back  to  some  ground  on  which  he  felt  rather 
more  at  home,  and  decidedly  more  secure  of  his 
own  footing. 

"  Anne  knew  that  Tom  was  a  born  gambler ; 
she  knew  it  before  she  married  him.  Nobody 
but  a  woman  —  a  fanatical  visionary  like  Anne 
— would  have  been  foolish  enough  to  expect  to 
change  a  leopard's  spots." 

"  It  doesn't  strike  me  as  particularly  foolish 
for  Anne  —  or  for  any  other  woman  —  to  ex 
pect  her  husband  to  keep  his  promise  not  to 
get  any  new  spots,"  the  lady  retorted,  with  all 
the  promptness  and  spirit  that  her  husband 
anticipated. 

The  doctor  glanced  at  the  young  man  as  tri 
umphantly  as  he  dared,  and  the  young  man 
returned  the  doctor's  glance  as  non-committally 
as  he  could.  They  had  both  often  observed  be 
fore  this,  as  most  observant  people  observe  at 
some  period  of  their  lives,  that  while  a  man 
will  defend  another  man  whenever  he  can,  re 
gardless  of  his  own  feelings  toward  the  individ 
ual,  he  has  never  a  word  to  say  in  defence 
of  men  ;  and  that,  while  a  woman  will  seldom 
defend  another  woman  without  strong  personal 
reasons,  she  is  always  ready,  cap-a-pie,  to  defend 
women,  through  thick  and  thin. 

Nevertheless,  the  doctor  was  again  a  trifle 
disappointed  to  find  his  wife  content  with  firing 

99 


Oldfield 

a  single  shot,  and  he  presently  said,  trying  to 
urge  her  on  :  — 

"  I  have  not  disputed  the  fact  that  Anne 
Watson  is  a  good  woman.  Tom  no  doubt 
made  the  promises  that  such  men  always  make 
when  they  want  to  win  some  pretty  girl,  and 
he  doubtless  hoped  to  be  strong  enough  to  keep 
them.  But  I  cannot  allow  a  patient  of  mine 
to  die  or  to  fall  into  melancholy  because  he 
has  failed  to  keep  promises  that  many  good 
men  break ;  or  because  his  wife  lacks  common 
sense ;  no  matter  how  good  she  may  be  or  what 
sort  of  religion  she  may  be  living  up  to.  If  Tom 
wants  to  play  cards,  —  as  I  think  that  he  does, 
as  I  am  nearly  sure  that  he  does, —  I  shall  cer 
tainly  find  him  a  partner  if  I  can.  I  would  play 
with  him  myself  if  I  knew  how." 

"  Let  me  do  it,  doctor,"  said  Lynn.  "  I  know 
something  about  several  games.  It  would  give 
me  real  pleasure  to  do  anything  in  my  power 
for  your  patient." 

Mrs.  Alexander  said  nothing  more  in  opposi 
tion  ;  she  merely  looked  her  thoughts.  When, 
therefore,  it  was  arranged,  as  the  young  man 
was  leaving,  that  he  should  come  on  the  fol 
lowing  morning  to  go  with  the  doctor  to  see 
Tom  Watson  about  the  game  of  cards,  the  lady 
merely  gave  her  smooth  auburn  head  a  side- 
wise  toss,  as  if  to  say  they  would  all  see  how  it 
turned  out. 


IOO 


VIII 

AT    OLD    LADY    GORDON'S 

LYNN  rode  slowly  by  the  Watson  house,  think 
ing  of  its  tragedy,  which  had  thus  touched  him 
so  soon  after  his  coming  to  this  quiet  village, 
the  seeming  abode  of  peace.  It  was  his  first 
partial  realization  that  the  folded  green  hills 
cannot  shut  away  the  pain  of  the  world.  He 
was  too  young  and  too  strong,  and  had  not 
suffered  enough  in  mind  or  body,  to  know  that 
quiet  and  peace  only  make  the  heart  ache  more 
keenly  with  the  sorrow  of  living. 

And  this  was  no  more  even  now  than  a  partial 
perception.  He  was  but  twenty-two,  yet  in  the 
springtime  of  life ;  and  the  earth  also  was  still 
in  the  season  of  its  perpetual  youth.  The  green 
of  new  leafage  now  tinted  the  thinning  white 
of  the  blossoming  orchards ;  the  green  and  the 
white  and  the  last  rosy  sweetness  of  apple 
blossoms  were  yet  melting  slowly  into  the  rich 
verdure  of  the  hillsides.  But  the  snowy  spray 
of  all  the  exquisite  flowering  drifted  fast  before 
the  incoming  summer  tide.  Already  the  wild 
flowers  were  almost  done  blooming  in  the 
woods,  and  the  scented  meadows  were  growing 
red  with  clover  blossoms. 

The  largest,  richest  fields  lying  on  both  sides 

IOI 


Oldfield 

of  the  big  road,  knee-deep  in  clover  and  dotted 
with  cattle,  belonged  to  the  Gordon  estate. 
Ultimately  they  would  all  be  his  own,  but  he  was 
not  thinking  of  this  as  he  looked  at  them  that 
day.  He  had  never  thought  of  making  Oldfield 
his  home,  having  long  cherished  other  plans. 
Yet,  as  he  looked  at  the  old  house,  it  was  a 
pleasant  sight  on  that  May  morning,  with  its  low 
white  walls  bowered  in  dense  shrubbery  and  its 
mossy  roof  overhung  by  giant  elms.  There  were 
many  maples,  also,  and  a  cypress  tree  stood 
beside  the  gate,  swinging  its  sombre  plumes  so 
close  to  the  ground  that  the  young  man  did 
not  see  a  cart  standing  before  the  gate  until  he 
was  almost  upon  it.  Coming  nearer,  he  saw 
that  it  belonged  to  a  butcher  who  had  driven  in 
from  the  country,  and  that  it  was  well  filled  with 
his  wares.  The  butcher  stood  astride  a  plank 
which  had  been  laid  across  the  front  wheels, 
and  he  was  busily  engaged  in  turning  over  the 
pieces  of  meat,  evidently  seeking  something  to 
please  the  mistress  of  the  house.  Old  lady 
Gordon  sat  at  the  open  window  in  her  accus 
tomed  place,  looking  grimly  on;  and  the  small 
Frenchman  who  managed  her  farm  waited  be- 

O 

side  the  cart,  standing  in  silence,  glancing  anx 
iously  from  its  contents  to  the  mistress  and 
back  again.  The  butcher  scowled,  as  he  tossed 
the  steaks,  the  joints,  and  roasts  about,  thinking 
angrily  how  much  more  trouble  it  always  was  to 
please  old  lady  Gordon  than  all  the  rest  of  the 
easy-going  people  living  along  his  semi-weekly 
route.  Finally,  however,  he  found  a  piece  which 

IO2 


At  Old  Lady  Gordon's 

seemed  promising,  and  he  handed  it  to  the 
small  Frenchman,  who  took  the  huge  joint, — 
holding  it  as  if  it  were  a  sword,  —  and  jauntily 
carried  it  across  the  lawn  to  the  window  and  held 
it  up  for  the  mistress  to  decide  upon.  She  gave 
only  one  contemptuous  glance  at  it ;  one  was 
enough  to  cause  its  rejection  with  great  scorn. 

"  No,  I  won't  have  that ! "  she  called  out  in 
her  loud,  deep,  imperious  voice,  speaking  to  the 
butcher  over  her  manager's  head.  "  How  many 
times  must  I  tell  you  that  I  don't  like  the  bony 
parts  ?  " 

Monsieur  Beauchamp  suddenly  dropped  the 
joint  as  if  it  had  burnt  him,  and  started  as  if  he 
had  been  stung.  His  face  flushed  scarlet,  and 
he  drew  himself  up  to  his  fullest  height. 

"Ah,  madame,"  he  said  poignantly  yet  proudly, 
"  I  am  stab  to  ze  soul  to  hear  you  say  zat  you 
do  not  like  ze  Bonapartes  !  " 

"  For  gracious'  sake ! "  old  lady  Gordon  ex 
claimed,  taken  quite  off  her  guard;  and  dropping 
her  turkey-wing  fan  in  her  start  of  amazement. 

In  another  moment  she  remembered,  and 
forthwith  did  what  she  could  to  soothe  the  little 
Frenchman's  deeply  wounded  feelings.  She 
turned  away  her  head  as  her  grandson  drew  near, 
and  put  up  the  turkey- wing  fan  to  hide  the  smile 
which  she  could  not  control,  when  her  gaze 
chanced  to  meet  his  as  he  looked  on,  a  silent 
and  interested  spectator  of  the  scene. 

"  Why,  Mister  Beauchamp,"  she  said,  quite 
gravely,  as  soon  as  she  could  speak  at  all,  "  I 
am  amazed  at  your  thinking  that  I  meant  any 

103 


Oldfield 

disrespect  to  your  relations.  How  in  the  world 
could  you  think  such  a  thing  ?  I  give  you  my 
word  of  honor,  that  I  have  always  believed  the 
Bonapartes  to  be  the  only  human  beings  ever 
created  expressly  to  rule  over  the  French." 

Monsieur  had  begun  to  soften  almost  as  soon 
as  the  mistress  had  begun  to  explain,  and  by 
the  time  the  explanation  was  finished,  he  was 
fairly  beaming  with  delight.  One  hand  was 
already  holding  his  hat,  but  the  other  was  free, 
and  this  he  now  laid  upon  his  heart,  bringing 
his  small  heels  together  in  a  most  impressive 
bow.  And  then,  smiling  and  quite  happy 
again,  he  picked  up  the  rejected  joint  of  mutton 
and  carried  it  back  to  the  cart  very  cheerfully 
indeed.  The  turning  over  of  its  contents  was 
accordingly  resumed  for  some  time  longer,  until 
old  lady  Gordon  consented  at  last  to  allow  the 
butcher  to  leave  a  large  roast.  She  shouted 
after  him,  nevertheless,  as  he  rattled  away ;  tell 
ing  him  at  the  top  of  her  strong  voice  that  he 
need  not  think  that  she  would  take  another 
piece  as  tough  and  lean  as  this  piece  was ;  that 
he  need  have  no  such  expectation  the  next  time 
he  came  round. 

She  told  Lynn  the  story  of  the  Frenchman 
when  the  young  man  had  entered  the  room  in 
which  she  always  sat  and,  with  her  permission, 
had  thrown  himself  down  on  the  couch  under 
the  window.  But  she  could  not  answer  his 
question  about  Monsieur  Beauchamp  imme 
diately,  because  Eunice,  the  fat  black  cook, 
chanced  to  come  in  just  at  that  moment  for  a 

104 


At  Old  Lady  Gordon's 

consultation  over  the  dinner,  and  the  meals  in 
old  lady  Gordon's  house  were  always  the  sub 
jects  of  very  grave  consideration,  requiring  a 
considerable  length  of  time. 

While  the  mistress  and  the  cook  were  thus 
conferring,  the  young  man  gazed  carelessly,  and 
yet  curiously,  around  this  large  low  room  in 
which  his  grandmother  lived,  and  had  spent 
the  greater  part  of  her  life ;  and  in  which  his 
father  had  been  born.  The  low  ceiling  had 
been  covered  with  canvas  years  before,  but  the 
original  white  of  the  canvas  had  long  since 
turned  to  a  smoky  brown.  The  walls,  which 
had  never  been  plastered,  were  also  covered  with 
canvas,  and  afterward  had  been  hung  with  old- 
fashioned  wall-paper  in  hunting  scenes.  These 
had  faded  into  a  general  effect  of  hazy  dimness, 
but  Lynn's  keen  young  eyes  made  out  the 
hunters,  the  hounds,  and  the  game,  as  he  lay 
idle  with  his  long  arms  under  his  handsome 
dark  head,  wondering  what  sort  of  man  his 
grandfather  had  been.  He  had  heard  it  said 
that  rooms  are  like  the  people  who  live  in 
them,  and,  recalling  the  saying,  he  wondered 
again  whether  this  room  was  now  as  it  used  to 
be  in  his  grandfather's  time.  There  stood  his 
grandfather's  secretary  in  one  corner,  still  filled 
with  papers,  just  as  he  must  have  left  it.  The 
bed  in  the  opposite  corner  must  also  have 
stood  in  the  same  place  for  many  a  year.  It 
had  been  a  very  stately  edifice,  a  magnificent 
structure,  in  its  day.  It  even  yet  upheld  a 
heavy  tester  of  faded  crimson  damask,  gathered 

105 


Oldfield 

to  the  centre  under  a  great  golden  star  of  tar 
nished  splendor.  It  had  evidently  once  been  of 
imposing  height,  and  it  was  still  of  unusual  width, 
but  it  had  lost  something  of  its  height  with  age, 
as  human  beings  do.  It  had  been  much  too 
high  for  old  lady  Gordon  to  climb  into  and  out 
of,  as  easily  as  she  liked,  when  she  began  to 
grow  stouter  and  more  indolent,  and  it  was  not 
her  way  to  submit  to  any  inconvenience  which 
she  could  avoid.  So  that  the  thick  mahogany 
legs  of  the  grand  old  bed  had  been  sawed  off 
by  degrees — as  old  lady  Gordon's  ease  required 
—  till  it  now  squatted  under  its  big,  dusty  red 
tester  like  some  absurd  turbaned  old  Turk. 
Lynn  smiled  as  he  looked  at  it,  letting  his  gaze 
wander  on  to  the  tall  chest  of  drawers,  to  the 
high-backed  split-bottomed  chairs,  to  a  great 
oaken  chest  at  the  foot  of  the  bed  —  to  all  the 
homely,  comfortable,  unbeautiful  things. 

Looking  at  his  grandmother,  who  was  still 
absorbed  in  the  consultation  with  the  cook,  the 
young  man  suddenly  felt  how  like  her  face  his 
own  was ;  feeling  it  with  the  curiously  mingled 
uneasiness  and  satisfaction  which  come  to  most 
of  us  when  we  recognize  ancestral  traits  in  our 
own  spirits,  our  own  minds,  or  our  own  bodies. 
She  was  a  large,  tall  old  woman,  still  handsome 
and  even  shapely,  despite  her  many  years  and 
her  great  weight.  Her  chin  was  square  and 
her  forehead  broad,  yet  her  grandson  was  some 
how  pleased  to  think  that  his  own  chin  was 
more  delicately  rounded,  and  that  his  forehead 
was  higher  than  hers  while  not  less  broad,  and 

1 06 


At  Old  Lady  Gordon's 

that  his  mouth  was  clearer  cut.  Still,  the  strong 
likeness  was  there,  in  every  one  of  the  features 
of  their  two  faces  and  most  of  all  in  their  eyes 
—  long,  large,  deep,  thick-lashed,  heavy-browed, 
and  as  black  as  human  eyes  ever  are ;  and  now 
as  old  lady  Gordon  turned  her  head,  the  young 
man  saw  with  a  kind  of  shock  that  his  grand 
mother's  eyes  were  almost  as  young,  too,  as  his 
own.  For  young  eyes  in  an  old  face  are  not  a 
pleasant  sight  to  see.  It  seems  better  for  the 
ageless,  unwearied  spirit,  thus  looking  out,  to 
have  grown  old  with  the  wearied  body,  so  that 
both  together  may  be  ready  for  the  Rest. 

Old  lady  Gordon  noticed  her  grandson's 
gaze,  as  soon  as  Eunice  had  gone  from  the 
room,  and  recognized  the  admiration  which 
partly  occupied  his  thoughts.  She  accordingly 
smiled  at  him,  settling  comfortably  back  in 
her  broad,  low  rocking-chair.  She  wore  a 
loose  flowing  wrapper  of  fine  white  muslin,  as 
she  always  did  in  warm  weather.  In  the  winter 
she  always  wore  the  same  garment  made  of  fine 
white  wool,  covering  it  with  a  long  black  cloak 
on  the  rare  occasions  upon  which  she  left  the 
house  during  cold  weather.  It  was  a  most  un 
usual  dress  and  one  of  peculiar  distinction,  but 
old  lady  Gordon  took  neither  of  these  facts  into 
the  slightest  account.  She  wore  the  fine  white 
muslin  in  the  summer  because  it  was  cooler 
than  anything  else ;  and  she  wore  the  white  wool 
in  the  winter  for  the  reason  that,  while  warm 
and  soft,  it  would  wash  with  less  trouble  than 
colored  stuffs,  when  she  dropped  things  on  it 

107 


Oldfield 

at  the  table,  as  she  did  at  almost  every  meal. 
It  is,  perhaps,  often  just  as  well  that  we  cannot 
know  the  causes  which  bring  about  many  pleas 
ing  and  even  poetic  results.  Old  lady  Gordon's 
servants,  especially  Dilsey  the  washerwoman, 
held  opinions  somewhat  different  from  hers  con 
cerning  the  greater  convenience  of  constantly 
wearing  white  in  winter  as  well  as  in  summer. 
But  old  lady  Gordon  never  took  that  into  ac 
count  either ;  neither  that  nor  anything  whatso 
ever  that  ever  touched  her  own  comfort  at  all 
adversely. 

"  Come  and  hand  me  my  bag,  I  want  a  cough- 
drop,"  she  said  to  Lynn  that  day,  yawning. 
"  It's  too  far  round  on  the  back  of  the  chair  for 
me  to  reach  it." 

Lynn  sprang  to  serve  her  and  handed  her  the 
bag.  It  was  the  first  time  that  he  had  seen  it; 
that  is  to  say,  it  was  the  first  time  that  he  had 
really  observed  the  bag ;  he  must,  of  course,  have 
seen  it,  since  no  one  ever  saw  old  lady  Gordon 
without  it.  During  the  day  it  always  hung  on 
the  back  of  the  chair  in  which  she  sat  when  not 
at  the  table  ;  when  she  sat  at  the  table  it  always 
hung  on  the  knob  of  the  dining-room  chair. 
Through  the  night  it  always  swung  from  the 
post  of  her  bed  close  to  her  hand.  When  she 
drove  out  in  her  ancient  coach  the  bag  went 
with  her.  And  a  wonderful  bag  it  was !  There 
were  many  more  things  in  it  than  mere  cough- 
drops.  There  were  various  other  sorts  of  drops 
—  drops  for  the  gouty  pain  which  sometimes 
assailed  old  lady  Gordon's  toe,  and  drops  of 

108 


At  Old  Lady  Gordon's 

good  old  brandy  for  cramp  after  overeating. 
And  there  were  candles  and  matches,  all  ready 
for  lighting  if  she  should  chance  to  grow  wake 
ful  through  the  night,  and  always  plenty  of 
novels ;  and  numerous  simple  toilet  articles, 
such  as  a  hairbrush  and  comb,  together  with 
biscuits  and  hair-oil  and  tea-cakes  and  hand 
kerchiefs  and  an  occasional  piece  of  pie.  It 
would  indeed  be  hard  to  think  of  anything 
that  old  lady  Gordon  could  have  needed  or 
desired,  during  the  day  or  the  night;  or  even 
have  fancied  that  she  wanted,  without  finding  it 
ready  to  her  hand  in  that  wonderful  bag.  There 
was  a  hand-bell  in  it,  too,  though  the  bell  usu 
ally  lay  at  the  very  bottom  of  the  bag,  under 
everything  else,  because  there  was  hardly  ever 
any  occasion  for  ringing  it.  The  bag  was  a 
very  gradual  evolution,  like  most  complete  in 
ventions.  Old  lady  Gordon  herself  had  given 
a  good  deal  of  thought  for  a  good  many  years 
to  the  bringing  of  it  to  its  ultimate  state  of  per 
fection  ;  and  Eunice  the  cook  and  Patsey  the 
housemaid  had  both  concentrated  their  atten 
tion  upon  it  more  and  more  as  the  mistress's 
wants  and  demands  increased;  until  it  had  now 
become  so  comprehensive  that  Eunice  rarely 
had  to  be  summoned  out  of  her  cabin,  at 
midnight,  to  give  old  lady  Gordon  a  lunch ; 
and  Patsey  was  able,  as  a  rule,  to  sleep  the 
whole  night  through  on  her  pallet  in  the  pas 
sage  outside  the  mistress's  door;  no  matter 
whether  that  lady  might  suddenly  crave  refresh 
ment,  or  whether  several  kinds  of  drops  might 

109 


Oldfield 

be  needed  in  consequence  of  a  too  hearty 
supper. 

When  old  lady  Gordon  had  taken  the  cough- 
drops  out  of  the  bag,  and  Lynn  had  replaced  it 
on  the  back  of  her  chair,  within  easier  reach, 
she  answered  his  question,  which  he  had  almost 
forgotten  in  his  wondering  observation  of  the 
bag. 

"  You  were  asking  about  little  Beauchamp," 
she  said.  "  Your  grandfather  found  him  some 
where  and  brought  him  home  with  him  a  long 
time  ago.  He  has  been  here  ever  since.  I 
don't  remember  how  long  ago  that  was.  I 
don't  know  anything  about  him  before  he  came. 
I  hardly  noticed  him,  in  fact,  until  after  your 
grandfather's  death,  when  I  found  him  useful  in 
helping  me  manage  the  farm." 

The  grandson  looked  at  the  grandmother  in 
silence,  paying  little  heed  to  what  she  was  say 
ing  of  the  Frenchman.  He  was  wondering  why 
she  said  "  your  grandfather  "  instead  of  saying 
"  my  husband."  He  had  already  noted  that  she 
invariably  said  "  your  father  "  instead  of  saying 
"  my  son."  He  knew  little  of  women's  ways, 
having  lost  his  mother  before  he  could  remem 
ber,  so  that  his  life  had  been  mostly  among 
men,  and  he  knew  nothing  whatever  of  his 
grandmother.  Yet  he  felt,  nevertheless,  that  a 
wife  and  mother  who  had  loved  her  husband 
and  her  son  would  not  speak  of  them  to  her 
grandson  as  "  your  grandfather "  and  "  your 
father,"  as  his  grandmother  did.  He  had  also 
a  curious,  half-amused,  half-indignant  feeling 

no 


At  Old  Lady  Gordon's 

that  her  doing  so  was  intended  to  make  him 
feel  somehow  responsible  for  something  which 
she  disliked,  and  did  not  wish  to  assume  re 
sponsibility  for  herself. 

"  I  never  thought  of  asking  your  grandfather 
where  he  found  him,"  old  lady  Gordon  went  on 
indifferently.  "  Most  likely  it  was  in  New 
Orleans.  The  few  foreigners  in  this  country 
mostly  came  from  there.  Your  grandfather 
used  to  go  there  pretty  often  with  flatboat- 
loads  of  horses.  But  it  doesn't  matter  where 
Beauchamp  came  from  in  the  first  place.  He's 
mighty  useful  to  me  now,  wherever  it  was.  I 
really  don't  see  how  I  could  get  along  without 
him.  He  is  a  faithful,  honest,  industrious  little 
soul.  Of  course  that  bat  in  his  belfry  flies  out 
now  and  then  —  as  you  saw  and  heard.  I  try 
to  remember  it,  but  I  forget  sometimes.  And 
how  could  a  body  guard  against  such  an  un 
heard-of  thing  as  that  was  ? "  She  laughed 
lazily,  fanning  herself  with  the  turkey-wing,  and 
rocking  slowly  and  heavily.  "  He  isn't  a  bit 
luny  about  anything  else,  and  he  is  just  as  use 
ful  to  me  as  if  he  didn't  believe  he  was  the 
son  of  Napoleon  Bonaparte.  I  don't  care  if  he 
thinks  he's  Julius  Caesar  himself.  What's  the 
odds  —  since  it  never  interferes  with  his  work? 
And  his  wife's  a  treasure  too,  in  a  different 
way.  There's  nothing  French  or  flighty  about 
her.  She  belongs  around  here — somewhere  in 
the  Pennyroyal  Region.  I  don't  know  or  re 
member  where  he  picked  her  up.  She  is  a 
great,  slow-witted,  homely,  slab-sided  drudge, 


Oldfield 

almost  twice  his  size.  And  such  a  worker ! 
She  never  turns  her  head  when  he  calls  her 
the  '  Empress  Maria.'  She  just  goes  straight 
along,  hoeing  the  garden  and  making  butter. 
But  —  all  the  same  —  she  thinks  the  sun  rises 
and  sets  in  him." 

The  young  man  laughed.  "  Fine  !  And  he 
no  doubt  thinks  she  hung  the  moon." 

His  grandmother  looked  at  him  more  atten 
tively  than  she  had  done  hitherto.  She  had 
never  been  thrown  with  men  of  quick  mind, 
and  was  not  accustomed  to  such  ready  re 
sponse.  She  liked  quickness  of  perception  as 
she  liked  all  bright  and  pleasant  things  ;  and 
she  disliked  slowness  of  understanding  as  she 
disliked  everything  tiresome — like  the  sybarite 
that  she  was. 

"  Certainly  he  does.  That's  always  the  way," 
she  in  turn  responded,  smilingly.  "  The  worse 
mated  the  married  seem  to  be  —  to  outsiders, 
the  better  they  appear  to  suit  one  another. 
Talk  about  'careful,  judicious  selection!' 
Old  lady  Gordon  made  an  inarticulate  but  elo 
quent  sound  of  scornful  incredulity.  "  If  you 
were  to  rush  out  there  in  the  big  road  this 
minute  —  with  your  eyes  shut  —  and  seize  the 
first  passer-by,  you  would  have  just  as  much 
chance  of  knowing  what  you  were  doing  — 
what  you  were  getting — as  you  ever  will  have! " 

Lynn  wondered  again  what  sort  of  a  man  his 
grandfather  could  have  been.  And  his  young 
mother,  whom  he  had  never  known  ?  Had  this 
cynical  old  woman  disapproved  of  her,  had  she 

112 


At  Old  Lady  Gordon's 

been  unkind  to  her?  There  is  always  some 
thing  repellent  to  wholesome  youth  in  the 
cynicism  of  the  old.  Feeling  this,  Lynn  said 
rather  coldly  that  he  had  thought  little  of  such 
matters,  he  had  been  too  much  absorbed  in 
other  things,  in  laying  life  plans  which  must  be 
quite  apart  from  all  thoughts  of  love  and  mar 
riage  for  a  good  many  years.  The  mere  mention 
of  these  cherished  plans  brought  a  flush  to  his 
dark  cheeks,  and  caused  him  to  sit  more  proudly 
erect.  They  were  seldom  far  absent  from  his 
mind,  and  the  main  thought  lying  nearest  the 
heart  is  never  long  unspoken  by  frank  young 
lips.  It  was  less  than  a  year  since  he  had  been 
graduated  from  the  Harvard  Law  School,  but 
his  deep-laid  plans  lay  far  back  of  his  gradua 
tion.  He  could  hardly  remember  when  he  had 
not  seen  the  path  of  his  ambition  straight  and 
distinct  before  him.  It  was  a  steep  one,  to  be 
sure,  and  hard  and  long,  as  the  road  to  the 
heights  must  ever  be.  But  he  had  faced  all 
this  wholly  undaunted,  knowing  the  power 
within  himself,  and  the  additional  strength 
which  fortune  had  given  him.  Yet  he  \vas  a 
modest  young  fellow,  and  simple-hearted  as 
well  as  single-minded.  There  was  in  him  little 
vanity  in  his  personal  gifts,  little  pride  in  his 
inherited  possessions.  He  simply  recognized 
these  as  lucky  accidents,  for  which  he  could 
claim  no  credit ;  holding  them  merely  as  the 
means  whereby  he  might  hope,  more  confi 
dently  than  most  young  men,  to  reach  the 
utmost  limit  of  his  ambition.  The  right  to 
i  113 


Oldfield 

practise  law  was  already  his,  and  the  rest  of 
the  way  upward  must  open  as  he  pressed  ear 
nestly  and  untiringly  onward,  —  the  bar,  the 
bench,  the  supreme  bench,  those  must  be 
within  the  winning  of  any  man  having  fair 
ability,  unbounded  capacity  for  hard  work,  and 
abundant  means  to  wait  for  its  fruition;  and 
he  knew  himself  to  be  possessed  of  all  these. 
This  seemed  to  him  the  highest  ambition  pos 
sible  to  an  American,  as  perhaps  it  was,  in  those 
days  when  the  ermine  was  still  held  unspotted, 
high  above  the  mire  of  politics. 

And  yet,  notwithstanding  these  lofty  aims 
and  matured  plans,  Lynn  Gordon  was  very 
young,  hardly  more  than  a  boy,  after  all,  in  many 
things,  so  that  he  soon  began  to  talk  with  boyish 
openness  of  the  herculean  task  which  he  thus 
had  set  himself  in  sober  earnest.  His  grand 
mother  listened  with  such  intense  interest,  such 
thorough  understanding,  and  such  complete 
sympathy  as  surprised  herself  far  more  than  it 
surprised  her  grandson.  She  was  taken  wholly 
unawares,  —  not  dreaming  of  finding  him  any 
thing  like  this,  —  having  looked  forward  to  his 
coming  with  but  lukewarm  enthusiasm. 

The  old  who  have  been  disappointed  in  almost 
everything  that  they  have  ever  set  their  hearts 
upon,  cease,  after  a  while,  to  expect  anything, 
and  learn  to  shield  themselves  against  further 
disappointment  by  real  or  assumed  indifference. 
Old  lady  Gordon  in  her  fierce  pride  had  never 
owned,  even  to  herself,  how  deep  and  bitter  and 
lasting  had  been  her  disappointment  in  her  own 

114 


At  Old  Lady  Gordon's 

son.  It  counted  for  nothing  with  her  that  he 
had  been  what  many  would  have  considered  a 
good  man,  though  not  an  intellectual  man  in 
the  estimation  of  any  one.  To  his  mother  his 
goodness  had  seemed  but  the  negative  virtue  of 
an  undecided  character  and  a  mediocre  mind. 
For  the  best  love  of  a  nature  like  hers  cannot 
be  born  of  mere  toleration,  even  in  a  mother's 
heart.  This  mother  —  being  what  she  was  — 
might  perhaps  have  come  nearer  to  forgiving  the 
things  which  were  lacking,  had  this  only  child 
been  a  daughter.  A  woman  like  old  lady  Gor 
don  never  expects  much  of  another  woman,  even 
though  she  be  her  own  daughter.  But  she 
always  expects  everything  of  every  man,  espe 
cially  when  he  belongs  to  her  own  family,  and 
thus  it  was  that  old  lady  Gordon  never  could 
wholly  forgive  her  only  son.  Least  of  all  could 
she  ever  quite  forgive  him  for  being  his  father 
over  again ;  an  almost  unpardonable  offence 
which  other  poorly  gifted  children  have  com 
mitted  in  the  eyes  of  other  embittered  mothers, 
who  have  illogically  expected,  as  poor  old  lady 
Gordon  had  expected,  to  gather  figs  from 
thistles.  « 

When  she  had  first  faced  the  truth  in  the 
prime  of  life,  her  fierce  pride  had  raised  the 
iron  shield  of  pretended  indifference,  and  she 
had  upheld  it  so  long  that  it  had  gradually 
grown  into  the  rusty  armor  of  age's  insensi 
bility.  And  yet,  through  all  its  steely  cold 
ness,  the  young  man's  warm  words  now  struck 
fire.  A  deep  glow  came  into  the  impassive, 


Oldfield 

handsome  old  face,  and  a  warm  light  into  the 
hard,  fine  old  eyes,  as  she  looked  at  this  spir 
ited,  strong,  determined,  capable  young  fellow, 
with  his  brilliant  face  aglow,  and  his  intelligent 
eyes  alight.  She  suddenly  felt  him  to  be  much 
more  her  own  spirit  and  flesh  and  blood  than 
his  father  had  ever  been.  It  seemed  for  an 
instant  as  if  her  own  strenuous  youth,  with  its 
impassioned  visions  of  conquest  —  so  long  for 
gotten  —  came  rushing  back  through  the  elo 
quent  lips  of  her  grandson. 


116 


IX 

A    ROMANTIC    REGION 

BUT,  alas,  the  habits  of  age  are  always  fixed, 
and  its  enthusiasms  are  mostly  fleeting.  At 
breakfast,  on  the  next  morning,  old  lady  Gordon 
was  as  stolidly  absorbed  in  the  food  which  she 
was  eating  as  she  usually  was  in  her  meals. 
Her  cynicism,  her  indifference,  too,  had  all 
come  back. 

Both  came  promptly  into  play,  when  Lynn 
chanced  to  remember  his  promise  to  play  cards 
with  the  sick  man,  and  mentioned  it,  which  he 
had  forgotten  to  do  on  the  day  before,  in  the 
intenser  interest  of  the  talk  about  his  own 
future.  The  old  lady  smiled  sardonically  and 
chewed  on  deliberately,  while  the  young  man 
gave  an  account  of  wrhat  had  taken  place  at 
the  doctor's  house. 

"  Anne  won't  allow  it,"  she  finally  said.  "  If 
anything  could  have  changed  her  or  have  taken 
the  nonsense  out  of  her,  it  would  have  been 
seeing  Tom  go  to  destruction,  mainly  because 
she  went  to  meeting.  A  woman  like  Anne 
takes  to  religion  just  as  immoderately  as  a  man 
like  Tom  takes  to  gambling." 

Lynn  did  not  speak  at  once.  He  was  feeling 
the  uneasiness  which  comes  over  right-minded 
youth  at  any  sign  of  irreligion  in  the  old. 

117 


Oldfield 

"  I  thought  every  man  liked  his  wife  to  go  to 
church,  however  seldom  he  might  go  himself," 
he  finally  advanced  hesitatingly. 

"  And  so  he  does,  when  he  doesn't  happen  to 
want  her  to  stay  at  home,"  said  old  lady  Gordon, 
with  a  cynical  laugh.  "  But  I've  never  known 
a  husband  pious  enough  to  like  his  wife's  reli 
gion  to  interfere  with  his  own  comfort  or 
wishes.  And  Tom  really  needed  Anne  a  good 
deal  more  than  her  church  did.  There  are 
men  who  are  as  sure  to  go  wrong  if  their  wives 
leave  them  alone,  as  ships  are  to  drift  without 
their  rudders  —  and  Tom  Watson  was  one  of 
these.  He  had  little  or  no  intellectual  re 
sources, —  none  at  all,  probably,  within  himself, 
—  and  he  was  consequently  entirely  dependent 
upon  companionship.  That  sort  of  male  ani 
mal  always  is,  and  if  he  can't  get  good  com 
pany  he  takes  bad,  simply  because  he  has  to 
have  company  of  some  kind.  Every  sensible 
woman  understands  that  sort  of  man,  especially 
if  she  is  married  to  him ;  and  she  knows,  too, 
just  what  she's  got  to  do,  unless  she's  willing  to 
take  the  certain  consequences  of  not  doing  it. 
Any  other  woman  than  Anne  would  have 
thought  she  was  lucky  when  Tom  didn't  take 
to  anything  worse  than  cards." 

Lynn  was  glad  when  the  breakfast  was  over. 
He  did  not  like  his  grandmother  in  this  mood 
nearly  so  well  as  he  had  liked  her  in  the  kindly 
responsive  one  of  the  night  before;  and  yet, 
although  he  knew  her  but  slightly,  he  felt  sure 
that  this  mood  was  more  natural,  or,  at  all 

118 


A  Romantic  Region 

events,  more  habitual,  to  her,  than  the  other. 
It  was  most  likely  this  instinctive  feeling  which 
had  unconsciously  kept  him  —  during  the  talk 
with  her  on  the  previous  day  —  from  speaking 
of  the  beautiful  girl  whom  he  had  seen.  He 
now  felt  more  distinctly,  though  still  without 
knowing  why,  that  he  did  not  wish  to  hear  his 
grandmother  speak  of  her  or  of  her  environ 
ment,  as  he  now  knew  that  the  old  lady  would 
speak.  He  already  understood  enough,  remem 
bering  the  kind  things  which  the  doctor's  lady 
had  told  him,  to  anticipate  the  different  pres 
entation  of  the  widow  Wendall  and  her  family 
that  his  grandmother  would  certainly  make. 

He  left  her  as  soon  as  he  could,  offering  his 
engagement  with  Dr.  Alexander  as  a  ready  ex 
cuse.  Passing  out  into  the  quiet,  empty  big 
road,  he  walked  along  under  the  old  locust  trees 
which  lined  one  side  of  the  way.  The  locusts 
were  flowering,  and  the  long  clusters  of  pure 
white  flowers,  swinging  among  the  dull  gray- 
green  of  the  feathery  foliage,  filled  the  fresh 
air  of  the  May  morning  with  wholesome  sweet 
ness.  The  shrubs  in  the  yards,  bordering  the 
length  of  the  big  road  with  the  vivid  verdure 
of  new  leaves,  were  also  in  bloom.  The  young 
man  smelled  the  honeysuckle  blossoming  thick 
over  the  sick  man's  window,  but  he  did  not  look 
that  way.  He  looked,  naturally  enough,  in 
the  opposite  direction,  where  the  silver  poplars 
stood,  since  the  interests  and  the  sympathies 
of  youth  must  always  lie  on  the  other  side  of 
life's  big  road,  away  from  all  affliction  and  pain. 

119 


Oldfield 

He  was  not  sorry  to  find  that  the  doctor  had 
gone  into  the  country  in  answer  to  an  urgent 
call,  and  that  the  visit  to  the  invalid  conse 
quently  must  be  postponed.  ,  He  was  sorry, 
however,  to  see  the  white  curtain  of  the  house 
behind  the  poplars  hanging  precisely  as  it  had 
hung  on  the  previous  day;  and,  although  he 
walked  to  the  top  of  the  hill  beyond  the  house 
and,  turning,  strolled  slowly  back  again  in 
front  of  the  window,  he  had  no  second  glimpse 
of  Doris.  Thus  idly  strolling,  he  went  along 
the  big  road,  stopping  now  and  then  to  lean 
over  a  fence  to  look  at  the  hyacinths  and 
tulips,  which  were  at  their  sweetest  and  bright 
est  in  most  of  the  front  yards ;  or  to  linger  be 
side  the  rosy  clover  fields  to  drink  in  the  fra 
grance  and  to  watch  the  vernal  happiness  of 
the  birds.  He  paused  occasionally  to  lift  his 
hat  smilingly  to  the  friendly  faces  which  smiled 
at  him  from  the  vine-wreathed  windows  and  the 
wide-open  doors ;  but,  loiter  as  he  might,  he 
saw  nothing  more  of  the  girl  of  whom  he  was 
thinking  and  hoping  to  meet,  and  although  he 
delayed  his  return  as  long  as  he  could,  he  was 
still  back  at  his  grandmother's  house  all  too 
soon. 

No  one  could  walk  through  Oldfield  a  second 
time  on  the  same  morning  without  a  visible  or 
audible  explanation  to  a  public  who  had  plenty 
of  leisure  to  note  the  few  passers-by,  and  to 
speculate  upon  their  possible  destination,  and 
to  discuss  the  most  probable  reasons  for  their 
going  up  or  coming  down  the  big  road.  Lynn 

120 


A  Romantic  Region 

had  an  instinctive  perception  of  this,  little  as 
he  knew  of  the  life  of  the  village.  Accordingly 
he  now  paused  uncertainly  at  his  grandmother's 
gate  and  stood  still,  not  knowing  what  to  do 
with  the  perfect  day,  with  the  ideal  Ides  of 
May. 

Looking  idly  toward  the  northern  hilltops,  he 
saw  the  figure  of  a  horseman  suddenly  break  the 
sky  line  and  rush  galloping  downward  into  the 
village.  Onward  thundered  the  big  black  horse 
and  his  strange  rider,  sweeping  by  like  a  whirl 
wind,  and  speeding  on  and  on,  till  they  vanished 
over  the  southern  hilltops.  A  light  cloud  of 
dust  floated  for  a  moment  between  the  farthest 
green  and  the  farthest  blue,  and  then  that  too 
disappeared,  and  the  coming  and  going  of  the 
wild  apparition  might  well  have  been  some  trick 
of  a  fantastic  imagination.  And  yet  Lynn  had 
received  a  curiously  distinct  impression  of  the 
man's  appearance  in  this  space  of  time,  brief 
almost  as  a  lightning  flash.  He  had  seen  the 
foreign  dress,  the  great  boots  so  long  that  they 
were  slit  to  the  knee ;  the  blood-red  handker 
chief  tied  loosely  around  the  neck,  and,  most 
distinctly  of  all,  the  sinister  expression  of  the 
dark,  deeply  lined  face  and  the  wildness  of  the 
black  eyes  under  the  wide,  flapping,  soft  brim 
of  the  large  sombrero  hat.  Altogether  it  was  so 
strange,  so  unreal  an  interruption  of  the  peace 
of  this  pastoral  spot,  that  the  young  man  could 
only  stand  silent  gazing  after  it  in  bewildered 
surprise. 

"  That's  Alvarado  !     You've  seen  one  of  the 


Oldficld 

sights  of  the  country,"  his  grandmother  called 
out  to  him  from  her  place  by  the  window. 

"  Who  is  Alvarado  ? "  he  asked,  when  he  had 
entered  the  room. 

"  That  is  a  question  which  a  good  many  peo 
ple  have  been  asking  for  a  good  many  years, 
and  nobody  has  ever  had  a  satisfactory  answer," 
old  lady  Gordon  replied. 

Smiling  her  sardonic  smile,  she  deliberately 
turned  down  the  leaf  of  the  novel  which  she 
had  been  reading  as  usual,  and  laid  it  on  her 
lap.  She  was  always  amused  by  these  histri 
onic  appearances  of  Alvarado  which  so  terrified 
most  of  the  Oldfield  people.  It  had  indeed 
long  been  known  all  over  the  Pennyroyal  Re 
gion  that,  while  other  folks  always  drove  hastily 
into  the  nearest  fence  corner  whenever  they  saw 
Alvarado  coming,  old  lady  Gordon  invariably 
kept  straight  along  in  the  middle  of  the  big 
road  —  never  turning  one  hair's  breadth  to 
the  right  or  the  left  —  and  that  Alvarado  was 
always  the  one  who  had  to  turn  out.  She  said 
nothing  of  this,  however,  and  thought  nothing 
of  it ;  but  she  told  her  grandson  all  that  she 
knew  or  that  any  one  knew  of  Alvarado. 

He  was  a  Spaniard  who  had  suddenly  ap 
peared  in  the  vicinity  of  Oldfield,  some  twenty- 
five  years  before.  No  one  had  any  knowledge 
of  him  previous  to  that  time,  and  no  one  had 
ever  known  where  he  came  from.  Yet,  for 
some  reason  never  clearly  understood,  his  com 
ing  had,  nevertheless,  been  associated  from  the 
first  with  the  scattering  of  the  Gulf  pirates 


A  Romantic  Region 

which  had  followed  the  deposing  of  their  last 
king.  It  is  true  that  Lafitte  was  long  since 
gone  to  render  his  awful  account  of  the  terribly 
deeds  done  in  the  body  —  with  perhaps  his 
desperate  service  at  the  battle  of  New  Orleans 
as  the  largest  item  on  the  other  side  of  the 
blotted  le'dger.  But  the  death  of  Lafitte  in  1826 
did  not  immediately  free  the  Gulf  from  its  fear 
ful  scourge.  The  passing  of  piracy  was  gradual, 
very  gradual  indeed,  and  even  long  drawn  out, 
as  the  traders  of  the  Pennyroyal  Region  knew 
only  too  well,  through  their  close  and  continual 
connection  with  New  Orleans  by  route  of  the 
flatboat.  There  was,  therefore,  to  the  minds 
of  the  Oldfield  people,  nothing  improbable  in 
the  continued  existence  of  numbers  of  Lafitte's 
followers,  who  were  younger  than  himself  and 
consequently  not  yet  really  old  men.  Still, 
while  there  was  no  impossibility  or  even  any 
improbability  in  Alvarado's  being  a  comrade 
of  Lafitte,  there  appeared  no  actual  proof  that  he 
ever  had  been.  According  to  old  lady  Gordon's 
account,  the  principal  grounds  of  suspicion  were 
these :  his  appearance,  which  was  otherwise  un 
accounted  for,  just  at  the  time  that  the  pirates 
were  being  driven  from  the  Gulf  and  out  of 
the  Gulf  states ;  his  frequent,  long,  and  myste 
rious  absences  at  sea  after  his  coming  to  live 
in  the  vicinity  of  Oldfield ;  the  fabulous  sums 
of  gold  and  silver  fetched  home  by  him  from 
these  voyages,  when  he  was  known  not  to  have 
any  visible  means  of  making  money ;  the  many 
curious  weapons  of  marine  warfare  scattered 

123 


Oldfield 

through  his  strange  house,  which  was  half  a 
fort,  half  a  farmhouse,  and  wholly  barbaric  in  its 
rough  richness  of  furnishing;  the  generally  cred 
ited  rumor  that  he  habitually  wore  a  coat  of  mail ; 
the  well-known  fact — open  for  every  passer-by 
to  see  —  that  he  kept  a  horse  standing  con 
tinually  at  his  gate,  day  and  night,  for  years, 
saddled  and  bridled,  with  pistols  in  the  holsters, 
apparently  ready  for  instant  flight. 

Many  of  these  things  old  lady  Gordon  had 
seen  with  her  own  eyes.  Most  of  them  she 
knew  to  be  true,  but  she  had  never  gone  to  his 
house,  although  he  had  at  one  time  received  a 
measure  of  social  recognition,  when  —  accord 
ing  to  old  lady  Gordon  —  there  had  been  some 
thing  like  real  society  in  Oldfield.  He  was 
rather  a  handsome  man  after  a  sinister,  foreign 
fashion,  although  he  had  been  past  youth  when 
he  first  came  to  Oldfield,  and  he  had  a  dash 
ing  way  with  him  which  fascinated  the  un 
observant.  It  was  in  this  manner  that  he  was 
thrown  with  Alice  Fielding,  the  colonel's  pret 
tiest  and  youngest  daughter,  so  old  lady  Gordon 
said. 

"  You  mean  the  old  gentleman  whom  I  saw 
yesterday?  That  stately,  beautiful  old  man  with 
the  silver  hair  curling  on  his  shoulders,  and 
wearing  the  long  black  cloak?"  Lynn  said. 

"  That's  the  man,  but  I  wish  you  might  have 
seen  him  in  those  days.  He  was  just  about  as 
fiery  as  Alvarado,  though  in  a  slightly  more 
civilized  way,  and  he  never  wanted  Alice  to 
have  anything  to  do  with  him.  He  never 

124 


A  Romantic  Region 

wanted  the  Spaniard  around  his  house  at  all. 
No  man  like  Colonel  Fielding  —  English  in 
every  drop  of  blood  —  ever  wants  anything  to 
do  with  any  foreigner.  But  there's  no  use 
in  trying  to  manage  a  girl  like  Alice  Field 
ing, —  a  little,  soft,  say-nothing,  characterless 
thing,  —  there's  nothing  in  her  strong  enough 
to  get  a  good  firm  hold  on.  She's  blown  like 
a  feather  this  way  and  that  way  by  the  strong 
est  influence  —  good  or  bad  —  that  she  falls 
under.  You'll  find  the  kind,  and  plenty  of 
them,  all  over  the  world.  The  Fielding  ne 
groes  used  to  say  Alvarado  threw  a  spell  over 
Alice.  I  presume  he  did,  but  it  was  the  spell 
which  that  sort  of  man  always  throws  over  that 
sort  of  girl.  She  was  a  flighty,  vain  little  crea 
ture,  and  flattered  of  course  by  his  being  so 
madly  in  love.  That  was  plain  enough  for  any 
body  to  see.  Nobody  ever  doubted  that  he 
loved  her.  But  she  had  never  thought  of 
marrying  him  until  she  was  terrified  into  doing 
it.  She  was  probably  in  love  with  John  Stanley 
so  far  as  she  was  capable  of  loving  any  man. 
It  was  said  they  were  upon  the  verge  of  becom 
ing  engaged  to  be  married.  I  don't  know 
about  that,  but  there  was  no  doubt  of  John's 
loving  her.  It  took  him  years  to  get  over  her 
marriage  to  Alvarado." 

"  I  don't  understand.  Why  did  she  marry 
him  ?  "  asked  Lynn. 

"  Through  sheer  fright  mixed  with  a  kind  of 
silly  romance,  as  nearly  as  anybody  ever  could 
make  out.  It  happened  in  this  way.  There 

125 


Oldfield 

was  some  kind  of  a  party  at  Colonel  Fielding's. 
There  always  was  something  going  on  while  his 
girls  were  young  and  gay;  and  there  is  plenty 
of  room  in  the  jailer's  residence  for  any  kind  of 
entertainment  —  and  many's  the  ball  and  dinner 
they  gave  !  That  night  Alvarado  was  one  of  the 
guests,  as  he  often  was.  Nobody  knows  what 
led  up  to  the  outbreak,  but  he  suddenly  fell  on  the 
floor  in  convulsions,  stiff  and  stark  and  black  in 
the  face,  and  actually  foaming  at  the  mouth  —  a 
sight,  they  said,  to  make  the  strongest  shudder. 
The  doctor  was  hurriedly  called  out  of  the 
supper  room  and  at  once  shut  the  door  of  the 
room  in  which  Alvarado  was  lying — at  the  point 
of  death  as  everybody  thought.  As  the  guests 
huddled  together  whispering,  it  flew  all  over  the 
house  that  he  had  taken  poison  and  that  he  re 
fused  to  take  an  antidote  unless  Alice  would 
consent  to  marry  him.  Your  father  was  there 
and  saw  her  go  into  the  room,  and  he  said 
afterwards  that  she  looked  as  much  like  a 
dead  woman  then,  as  she  did  a  year  later  when 
she  lay  in  her  coffin.  No  one,  except  those  who 
were  in  the  room,  ever  knew  what  happened, 
but  the  colonel  presently  came  to  the  door 
and  sent  for  the  preacher.  It  was  a  dancing 
party,  or  he  would  have  been  there  already,  as 
almost  everybody  else  was.  But  it  didn't  take 
long  to  fetch  him,  and  he  married  Alvarado  to 
Alice  Fielding  then  and  there." 

"  And  John  Stanley?  "  inquired  Lynn. 

"  He  knew  nothing  of  the  marriage  till  he 
came  to  see  Alice  on  the  next  Sunday  as  he 


A  Romantic  Region 

always  did.  He  didn't  live  in  Oldfield  at  that 
time.  He  had  gone  away  soon  after  another 
unlucky  affair  which  most  men  wouldn't  have 
worried  about,  but  which  seems  to  have  had  a 
lifelong  effect  upon  him.  He  was  always  a 
sensitive,  high-strung  fellow  and  deeply  reli 
gious —  full  of  lofty  ideals  and  all  that  sort  of 
thing  —  even  then,  when  he  was  hardly  more 
than  a  lad.  He  had  come  here  only  a  week  or 
so  before  to  take  an  assistant's  place  in  the 
clerk's  office.  He  was  a  cousin  of  Jack  Mitchell, 
the  county  clerk  —  that's  the  way  he  happened 
to  come.  Well,  Jack  Mitchell  was  a  politician 
and  as  high  a  talker  and  as  low  a  doer  as 
was  to  be  found  betwixt  the  Cumberland  and 
Green  River,  which  is  saying  a  good  deal.  I 
reckon  he  couldn't  be  more  than  matched  in 
these  days.  I  haven't  noticed  much  change  in 
politicians  during  the  last  quarter  of  a  century. 
Jack  had  been  elected  by  a  large  majority,  and 
was  reelected,  and  had  his  hand  fairly  on  a  higher 
rung  of  the  political  ladder,  when  he  made  a 
false  step  and  slipped.  The  trouble  came  from 
a  foolish  quarrel  caused  by  drink.  Jack  Mitchell 
always  was  quarrelsome  when  in  liquor,  and  on 
that  day  he  happened  to  accuse  another  Ken- 
tuckian  of  cowardice.  That,  of  course,  was 
crossing  the  dead-line.  It  was  just  the  same 
then  that  it  is  now  and  always  will  be,  till  our 
blood  and  training  are  different.  And  the  fact 
that  the  man  who  had  been  branded  as  a  coward 
was  a  worthless  loafer,  made  no  more  difference 
then  than  it  would  make  now.  The  wretch 

127 


Oldfield 

who  had  been  '  insulted '  rose  up,  as  soon  as  he 
was  sober  enough,  and  borrowed  a  shot-gun 
and  went  to  wipe  out  his  dishonor,  just  as  if 
he  had  been  a  real  gentleman.  Jack,  with 
his  usual  luck,  was  not  in  the  office  when  his 
enemy,  who  was  still  drinking  heavily,  suddenly 
appeared  in  the  doorway,  levelling  the  gun.  He 
was  not  so  drunk,  though,  that  he  didn't  know 
that  he  was  aiming  at  a  boy  whom  he  had  never 
seen  before,  in  place  of  the  man  whom  he  had 
come  to  kill.  He  knew  it  well  enough,  for  he 
muttered  something  about  killing  the  young  one 
if  he  couldn't  get  the  old  one.  But  John  Stanley 
was  too  quick  for  him.  Jack's  pistol  lay 
handy,  as  it  always  did,  as  pistols  always  do, 
hereabouts.  The  boy  hardly  knew  what  was 
happening  before  he  had  shot  dead  a  man 
whose  name  he  didn't  know  —  a  man  whom 
he  had  never  seen  or  heard  of  before." 

"  What  a  strange  story,"  Lynn  said.  "  I 
think  I  have  never  heard  a  stranger  one." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know  about  it's  being  strange. 
Of  course  somebody  had  to  be  killed,"  old  lady 
Gordon  responded  indifferently. 

"  Somebody  had  to  be  killed  —  and  why?" 
repeated  Lynn,  wonderingly;  for,  although  to 
the  manner  born  he  was  not  to  the  manner  bred. 

"  Oh,  well,  when  things  get  into  that  shape 
somebody's  bound  to  be  killed !  When  a  Ken- 
tuckian  is  accused  of  cowardice  he  has  to  kill 
somebody  to  prove  his  courage.  There's  noth 
ing  else  to  be  done — apparently.  And  it  might 
as  well  have  been  Betts  as  anybody  else." 

128 


A  Romantic  Region 

She  yawned,  and  swayed  her  turkey-wing  fan. 

"  It  would  all  have  blown  over  and  have 
passed,  as  all  such  things  pass  in  this  country, 
if  John  Stanley  hadn't  been  morbid  about  it,  if 
he  had  been  at  all  like  other  people.  Of  course 
he  was  acquitted  at  the  examining  trial.  There 
were  plenty  of  witnesses  to  the  fact  that  he  fired 
in  self-defence.  The  family  of  the  man  who 
was  killed  never  made  a  motion  toward  taking 
the  matter  up,  and  they  would  have  been  ready 
enough  to  do  it  if  they  could  have  found  any 
pretext  for  blaming  John.  They  were,  in  fact, 
rather  looked  down  on  for  taking  it  so  easy. 
But  John  has  never  forgiven  himself;  he  has 
always  thought  he  might  have  done  some 
thing  else  than  what  he  did.  He  has  rarely 
mentioned  it  to  any  one,  but  I  understand 
that  he  once  told  Miss  Judy  that,  if  it  were 
to  do  over  again,  he  would  run  the  risk  of 
being  killed  himself  rather  than  take  the  life 
of  any  human  being.  As  I  have  said,  he  was 
always  very  religious,  even  then,  and  this  was,  I 
suppose,  the  reason  why  he  brooded  so  over  the 
affair.  To  this  day  he's  more  like  a  praying 
monk  shut  up  in  a  cell  than  he's  like  the 
famous  judge  of  a  large  circuit." 

"  Of  course  he  never  married,"  said  Lynn. 

"Oh,  yes,  he  did  —  but  not  for  a  long  time; 
not  for  years  and  years  after  that  Spanish  tiger 
had  made  an  end  of  that  foolish  little  kitten. 
Alice  lived  only  a  few  months.  They  said  that 
Alvarado  wasn't  unkind ;  that  he  even  tried  to 
be  kind  in  his  way.  But  Alice  seemed  to  hate 
K  129 


Oldfield 

him — as  much  as  she  was  capable  of  hating  any 
body — when  she  found  out  how  he  had  tricked 
her ;  that  he  hadn't  taken  poison  at  all  when  he 
pretended  he  had,  and  that  the  awful-looking 
foam  on  his  lips  had  come  from  chewing  soap." 

"Don't  —  don't!"  cried  the  young  man. 
"  Leave  the  romance.  Tell  me  about  Judge 
Stanley  —  though  he  too  has  done  what  he 
could  to  spoil  the  story  by  marrying.  What  sort 
of  woman  is  his  wife  ?  Poor  little  Alice  !  " 

"  I've  never  seen  his  wife.  She  has  been  here 
only  once  or  twice,  for  a  few  days  at  a  time.  They 
say  she  is  a  high-flier  and  very  ambitious.  John 
didn't  begin  to  go  up  very  high  in  the  world  till 
after  he  had  married  her.  She  no  doubt  makes 
him  a  much  better  wife  than  Alice  ever  could 
have  made.  A  silly,  big-eyed,  clinging,  crying 
little  woman  who  doesn't  weigh  a  hundred  pounds 
can  drag  down  the  strongest  man  like  a  mill 
stone  around  his  neck.  That  apparently  harm 
less  little  creature  managed  to  ruin  the  lives  of 
two  big  strong  men  —  each  worth  half  a  dozen 
of  her  for  all  useful  purposes.  John  Stanley 
certainly  has  never  seen  a  day's  happiness,  and 
there  can  be  no  sort  of  doubt  that  Alvarado  has 
been  partially  demented  ever  since  her  death. 
His  craziness  seems  to  take  the  form  of  sense 
less  litigation.  He  appears  unable  to  keep  away 
from  the  court-house  when  he  knows  that  John 
Stanley  is  here,  and  he  is  always  bringing 
lawsuits  on  ridiculous  pretexts,  so  that  the 
judge  is  compelled  to  rule  them  out  of  court. 
Alvarado  is  forever  trying  to  find  a  chance  to 

130 


A  Romantic  Region 

pick  a  quarrel  with  the  judge,  but  he  might 
iv.st  as  well  give  it  up.  He  will  never  be  able, 
no  matter  how  hard  he  tries,  or  how  insulting 
he  may  be,  to  drag  John  Stanley  into  a  duel  or 
even  into  a  quarrel." 

"  Why  ? "  asked  the  young  man  in  surprise, 
not  understanding.  "  Is  the  Spaniard  such  a 
terrible  person  ?  Is  the  judge  afraid  ?  " 

"  Afraid  —  John  Stanley  afraid  !  "  repeated 
old  lady  Gordon,  scornfully.  "  He  never  knew 
what  fear  was.  For  calm,  cool,  unflinching  cour 
age  in  the  face  of  the  greatest  danger,  I  have 
never  known  his  equal.  If  I  could  remember 
and  tell  you  some  of  the  brave  things  that  that 
man  has  done.  Why,  when  he  was  only  a 
lad  he  seized  a  lamp  which  had  exploded  and 
coolly  held  it  in  his  bare  hands  —  with  the  blaz 
ing  oil  burning  the  flesh  to  the  bone  —  till  he 

O  O 

could  carry  it  to  a  place  of  safety,  rather  than 
endanger  the  lives  of  other  people  by  throwing 
it  down.  No  longer  than  a  year  or  two  ago  he 
nearly  lost  his  own  life  by  saving  an  old  negro 
woman  from  a  runaway  horse.  John  Stanley 
is  no  more  afraid  of  Alvarado  than  he  is  of  me. 
It's  all  on  account  of  his  queer  notions  of 
religion,  of  humanity,  and  of  the  sacredness  of 
human  life.  It  all  grew  out  of  that  unlucky 
accident  of  his  youth,  a  matter  that  another 
man  would  not  have  given  a  second  thought  to. 
His  fear,  his  horror  of  shedding  blood  has 
gradually  grown  more  and  more  intense,  until 
it  seems  to  have  become  a  positive  mania. 
Nothing  now  can  ever  drive  him  from  it. 


Oldfield 

Alvarado  may  as  well  give  up  trying  to  provoke 
him  into  a  quarrel.  But  he  on  his  side  is  quite 
as  determined  as  John  Stanley.  He  will  never 
give  it  up ;  he's  no  doubt  been  at  the  court 
house  hatching  some  plot  this  very  day.  I 
often  wonder  what  the  end  will  be,  should  both 
of  the  men  go  on  living.  To  think  of  all  the 
wrong  and  wretchedness  that  one  foolish  baby 
face  can  cause  !  " 

Lynn  did  not  cry  out  again,  half  in  earnest 
and  half  in  jest,  begging  his  grandmother  to 
spare  romance ;  but  he  got  up,  silently,  and 
took  a  turn  or  two  about  the  room.  He  was 
genuinely  shocked  to  find  himself  feeling  the 
repulsion  which  her  lack  of  womanliness  forced 
upon  him.  The  merciless  cynicism  revealed 
by  everything  that  she  said  might  have  amused 
him  had  he  heard  it  from  another  person ; 
but  he  was  uncontrollably  repulsed  by  it  com 
ing  from  his  father's  mother.  He  was  glad 
when  she  began  to  speak  of  other  subjects,  and 
less  moving  ones,  although  these  also  were 
interwoven  with  the  history  of  the  Pennyroyal 
Region. 

She  was  not  a  native  of  Oldfield.  Her  birth 
place  lay  farther  up  in  that  country  on  the 
"  Pigeon  Roost  Fork  of  the  Muddy,  which  is  a 
branch  of  Green  River,"  on  the  very  spot  thus 
described  by  Washington  Irving's  Kentucky 
classic.  But  Irving  had  only  heard  of  "  Blue 
Bead  Miller,"  the  famous  hunter  and  Indian 
fighter,  whom  he  has  immortalized  in  that 
charming  tale  under  his  real  name;  and  old 

132 


A  Romantic  Region 

lady  Gordon  had  known  him  in  her  childhood 
and  early  youth.  Many  a  time  she  had  seen 
him  in  her  father's  house,  where  he  would  often 
come,  bringing  his  rifle,  "  Betsy,"  for  her  mother 
to  "  unwitch."  And  this,  her  mother  —  who 
was  young  and  city-bred,  and  full  of  wondering 
interest  in  all  these  strange  ways  of  the  wilder 
ness —  would  always  do  with  girlish  delight, 
gravely  running  her  slim  white  fingers  up  and 
down  the  grimy  barrel,  as  one  who  works  a 
beneficent  charm,  while  the  grim  old  woods 
man  looked  on  with  unquestioning  faith. 

Near  this  old  home  on  the  Pigeon  Roost 
Fork  was  the  Roost  itself,  that  marvellous 
mecca  of  the  wild  pigeons,  where  countless 
billions  of  gray  wings  darkened  the  great  woods 
on  the  sunniest  midday ;  and  where  unnum 
bered  trillions  of  the  weightless,  feathered  little 
bodies  crushed  the  great  limbs  of  the  mightiest 
giants  of  the  forest.  And  this  wondrous  sight, 
too,  old  lady  Gordon  had  seen  many  times,  long 
before  Audubon  saw  it  to  describe  it  for  the 
wonderment  of  the  whole  world. 

She  had  not  much  to  tell  of  the  bridegroom 
with  whom  she  came  as  a  young  bride  to  live  in 
Oldfield ;  she  spoke  mainly  of  journeying  on 
horseback  over  the  Wilderness  Road,  and  of 
passing  the  place  called  "  Harpe's  Head,"  which 
had  then  been  very  recently  named  for  a  most 
hideous  tragedy.  It  was  a  story  full  of  grewsome 
romance,  this  tale  of  the  unheralded  coming  of 
two  monsters  among  a  simple,  honest,  scattered, 
yet  neighborly,  woods-people.  The  two  were 


Oldfield 

brothers,  or  claimed  to  be,  but  there  was  no 
outward  likeness  between  them.  One  was  small, 
and  not  in  any  way  calculated  to  attract  atten 
tion  ;  while  the  other  was  far  above  the  ordinary 
stature  of  men,  and  so  ferocious  of  aspect  that 
the  very  sight  of  him  chilled  the  beholder 
with  fear.  Neither  of  the  men  ever  wore  any 
head  covering,  and  both  had  wild,  manelike,  red 
hair,  and  complexions  of  "  a  livid  redness  "  — 
whatever  that  may  have  been  —  such  as  left  a 
lasting  impression  of  horror  upon  all  who 
encountered  them.  They  were  soon  known 
throughout  the  length  of  Wilderness  Road  as 
Big  Harpe  and  Little  Harpe.  They  lived  close 
to  the  road,  and  almost  immediately  after  their 
coming  travellers  began  to  disappear,  never  to 
be  heard  of  again,  or  to  be  found  long  after 
ward  to  have  been  murdered.  A  very  pall  of 
terror  spread  gradually  over  the  whole  Penny 
royal  Region ;  arson,  robbery,  and  atrocities 
unspeakable  followed  murder  after  murder, 
and  yet  the  few,  far-apart  people  of  the  terror- 
stricken  country  could  only  tremble  in  help 
less  fear,  till  the  murder  of  a  woman  led  to 
the  tracing  of  the  long,  wide,  deep  track  of 
blood  and  crime  to  the  door  of  the  Harpes. 

"When  they  murdered  a  woman,  the  whole 
country  rose  up  as  one  man.  And  it  was  just  the 
same  then  that  it  is  now  when  the  same  thing 
happens,"  old  lady  Gordon  said  grimly.  "  The 
best  men  in  the  Pennyroyal  Region  —  as  good 
and  as  God-fearing  men  as  could  be  found  in 
the  world  —  hunted  the  Harpes  like  wild  beasts. 

134 


A  Romantic  Region 

They  beat  the  whole  wilderness  for  the  monsters, 
until  they  found  them  at  last.  Little  Harpe 
managed  to  escape ;  it  was  not  known  how, 
and  he  was  never  seen  or  heard  of  again.  But 
it  was  Big  Harpe  who  had  been  the  leader;  he 
was  the  one  that  the  men  wanted  most,  and 
they  now  had  him  fast  like  a  wild  animal  in  a 
trap.  Yet  not  one  of  his  captors  touched  him ; 
not  one  of  them  spoke  to  him ;  they  all  merely 
sat  still  with  their  eyes  on  him,  and  waited  for 
the  woman's  husband  to  come." 

"History  repeats  itself  —  especially  in  Ken 
tucky,"  Lynn  said. 

Old  lady  Gordon  smiled  her  most  sardonic 
smile.  "  The  skull  of  Big  Harpe's  head  stayed 
on  the  end  of  a  pole  by  the  side  of  the  Wilder 
ness  Road  through  a  good  many  years.  The 
place  where  it  was  put  up  is  still  called  '  Harpe's 
Head  '  —  I  presume  it  always  will  be." 

All  this  was  before  old  lady  Gordon  came  as 
a  young  bride  to  live  in  Oldfield;  but  another 
band  of  robbers  and  assassins  still  terrorized 
that  part  of  the  Pennyroyal  Region.  The 
cavern  in  which  the  band  made  its  den  was 
on  the  other  side  of  the  Ohio  River,  but*  it  was 
Kentucky  that  suffered  most  from  its  ravages. 
Many  a  richly  laden  flatboat  was  never  heard 
of  after  it  was  known  to  have  stopped  at 
the  entrance  to  Cave-in-Rock,  as  the  place  was 
called  in  the  beginning  of  the  last  century, 
and  as  it  is  called  at  the  present  time.  Many 
a  gold-laden  boatman,  who  had  unknowingly 
passed  down  the  river  without  stopping  at 


Oldfield 

the  Cave-in-Rock,  was  beguiled  into  entering 
it  on  his  way  homeward  —  only  to  vanish  for 
ever  off  the  face  of  the  earth.  The  cavern 
would  seem  to  •  have  offered  powerful  tempta 
tions  to  the  unwary  traveller.  The  cave  itself 
was  then  as  it  is  now  a  most  curious  and  interest 
ing  survival  of  prehistoric  times.  It  is  a  single 
chamber  in  the  solid  rock,  opening  at  the  river's 
brink,  two  hundred  feet  long  and  eighty  feet 
wide,  its  sides  rising  by  regular  stages  after  the 
manner  of  the  seats  in  an  amphitheatre.  Its 
walls  are  covered  with  strange  carvings  cut  deep 
in  the  stone  ;  there  are  representations  of  several 
animals  unknown  to  science,  and  there  are  also 
inscribed  characters  which  have  led  those  learned 
in  such  matters  to  believe  the  cavern  to  have 
been  the  council  house  of  some  ancient  race. 
But  nothing  was  known  of  these  things  while 
Cave-in-Rock  remained  the  hiding-place  of  rob 
bers  and  assassins.  The  terrified  country  round 
about  Oldfield  knew  the  place  only  by  vague 
hearsay  as  a  drinking,  gambling  resort,  wherein 
boatmen  and  all  unwary  travellers  going  up  or 
down  J;he  Ohio  were  lured  to  destruction.  No 
one  who  entered  the  awful  mystery  of  the 
cavern  ever  came  out  to  tell  what  he  had  seen 
or  what  had  befallen  him.  It  seemed  —  so  old 
lady  Gordon  said  —  as  if  the  hand  of  the  law 
would  never  be  able  to  lay  hold  upon  actual 
proof  of  the  crimes  committed  at  Cave-in-Rock, 
but  when  the  band  was  ultimately  run  to  earth, 
an  upper  and  secret  chamber  was  found  to  be 
filled  with  the  bones  of  human  beings. 

136 


A    Romantic  Region 

The  grandmother  and  the  grandson  sat  silent 
for  a  space  after  she  grew  weary  of  story-telling. 
They  were  thinking  in  widely  different  ways  of 
the  wild,  true  tales  of  these  terrific  passion 
storms  which  had  swept  Kentucky  throughout 
her  existence.  Was  another  fair  portion  of  the 
good  green  earth  ever  so  deep-dyed  in  the  blood 
of  both  the  innocent  and  the  guilty  ? 

"  And  yet  through  all  we  have  always  been 
a  most  religious  people,"  the  young  man  said 
musingly. 

"  Very ! "  responded  the  old  lady,  who  was 
growing  hungry.  "  None  more  so.  We've 
about  all  the  different  religions  that  anybody 
else  ever  had,  and  we've  started  one  or  two 
of  our  own." 


X 

RELIGION    IN    OLDFIELD 

IT  is  in  the  quiet  village,  remote,  as  this  was, 
from  the  rushing  change  of  city  life,  that  the 
fervor  of  religion  always  appears  warmest  and 
seems  to  linger  longest. 

In  Oldfield  everybody  went  to  church  twice 
a  day  on  Sunday,  in  winter  and  in  summer,  and 
through  the  rain  as  well  as  through  the  sun 
shine.  That  is  to  say,  everybody  except  old 
lady  Gordon  and  Miss  Judy  Bramwell,  neither 
of  whom  ever  went  at  all. 

There  was  nothing  strange  or  inconsistent  in 
old  lady  Gordon's  staying  away.  She  was  gen 
erally  held  by  everybody  to  be  as  an  out-and- 
out  heathen,  whereas  in  reality  she  was  merely 
a  good  deal  of  a  pagan.  And  she  was  not  in 
the  habit  of  accounting  to  anybody  for  what 
she  did  or  did  not  do,  being  equally  indifferent 
to  private  and  public  opinion. 

But  Miss  Judy's  never  going  was  a  much 
harder  thing  to  understand.  For  the  little  lady 
was  not  only  the  model  for  the  whole  commu 
nity  in  week-day  matters,  but  she  was  also 
known  to  be  a  most  devout  Episcopalian,  so 
that,  taken  altogether,  the  fact  that  she  never 
went  to  church  remained  always  an  impene- 

138 


Religion  in  Oldfield 

trable  mystery,  notwithstanding  that  the  CKd- 
field  church-goers  discussed  it  untiringly  on 
almost  every  Sunday  of  their  lives.  Nor  did 
Miss  Judy,  who  was  the  soul  of  guileless  frank 
ness  in  everything  else,  ever  offer  any  sort  of 
an  explanation  for  this  unaccountable  remiss- 
ness.  She  could  not  make  any  untrue  excuses, 
and  she  would  not  give  the  real  reason ;  her 
gentle  heart  being  much  too  tender  of  her 
neighbors'  feelings  to  admit  of  her  mentioning 
the  truth,  so  long  as  she  was  able  to  hide  what 
she  was  bound  in  conscience  to  feel. 

"  They  are  doing  the  best  they  can,  you 
know,  sister  Sophia,"  she  would  say,  almost  in 
a  whisper,  as  the  neighbors  passed  on  Sundays; 
and  she  would  steal  on  tiptoe  to  close  the  door, 
so  that  Merica  might  not  overhear.  "  They 
are  not  to  blame,  poor  things ;  it  is  their  mis 
fortune  and  not  their  fault,  that  they  don't 
know  the  difference  between  a  meeting-house 
and  the  Church,  and  between  a  lecture  and  the 
Service." 

"  Just  so,  sister  Judy,"  Miss  Sophia  would 
respond,  more  befogged  if  possible  over  conse 
cration  and  apostolic  succession  tharl  she  was 
over  most  things.  When,  however,  after  a  time, 
she  came  gradually  to  comprehend  that  this 
stand,  taken  privately  by  Miss  Judy,  would 
spare  herself  the  exertion  of  walking  to  the 
meeting-houses,  both  of  which  were  at  the 
other  end  of  town,  she  became  so  decided  in 
her  support  of  Miss  Judy's  position  as  to  re 
move  the  last  shade  of  doubt  from  that  mild 

139 


Oldfield 

little  lady's  mind.  Nothing  of  all  this  was  ever 
suspected  by  any  third  person,  but  in  the  ab 
sence  of  any  actual  knowledge,  it  ultimately 
came  to  be  taken  for  granted  that  Miss  Judy 
stayed  at  home  on  Sundays  and  read  the  prayer- 
book  to  her  sister  because  Miss  Sophia  was 
not  equal  to  the  long  walk  to  church  and  back, 
especially  in  bad  weather.  Miss  Judy  of  course 
said  not  a  word  either  to  confirm  or  to  contra 
dict  this  impression,  which  strengthened  as  the 
years  went  by.  But  she  always  gave  the  neigh 
bors  so  sweet  a  smile  when  they  passed  on  the 
way  to  meeting  that  everything  seemed  to  every 
body  just  as  it  should  be. 

One  of  the  churches  belonged  to  the  Metho 
dists  and  the  other  to  the  denomination  known 
as  The  Disciples  of  Christ.  The  town  was  not 
large  enough  to  supply  two  congregations  or 
to  support  two  preachers ;  and  it  was  conse 
quently  necessary  to  hold  services  in  each  of 
the  churches  on  alternate  Sundays  in  order  to 
insure  a  sizable  congregation  and  a  moderate 
support  for  the  circuit  rider  and  the  Christian 
elder,  when  they  came  from  their  farms  in 
another  part  of  the  county  to  preach  on  their 
appointed  days ;  thus  giving  freedom  to  all  and 
favor  to  none. 

A  single  contribution  box  served  for  the  two 
churches.  This,  which  was  in  reality  a  con 
tribution  bag,  was  a  sort  of  inverted  liberty  cap 
made  of  ecclesiastical  black  cloth,  and  lined 
with  churchly  purple  satin.  When  not  in 
use  it  usually  stood  on  the  end  of  its  long  staff 

140 


Religion  in  Oldfield 

in  what  was  called  the  Amen  corner  of  the 
Methodist  church.  The  office  of  taking  it 
down  from  its  accustomed  resting-place,  and  of 
carrying  it  over  to  the  Christian  church  when 
needed  there,  had  belonged  from  time  immemo 
rial  to  Uncle  Watty.  It  is  not  certain  to  which 
of  the  two  denominations  Uncle  Watty  himself 
belonged.  It  was,  indeed,  never  a  very  clearly 
established  fact  that  he  was  a  member  of  any 
denomination,  but  this  uncertainty  had  nothing 
whatever  to  do  with  the  life-long  holding  of  his 
office.  It  seemed  to  everybody  to  be  the  right 
and  proper  thing  for  Uncle  Watty  to  take  up 
the  collection,  mainly  for  the  reason  that  he 
always  had  done  it,  which  is  accepted  as  a  good 
and  sufficient  reason  for  many  rather  singular 
things  in  that  region.  Miss  Judy,  who  knew 
about  it,  as  she  knew  about  everything,  al 
though  she  never  saw  him  do  it,  —  since  she 
never  went  to  meeting, — always  considered  it 
a  particularly  kind  and  delicate  arrangement, 
devised  by  some  thoughtful,  feeling  person 
expressly  to  save  Uncle  Watty  the  embarrass 
ment  of  having  nothing  to  put  in  the  bag  him 
self.  But  Uncle  Watty  apparently  took  another 
view  of  it ;  and,  like  a  good  many  people  who 
do  little  themselves  and  exact  much  from  others, 
he  was  extremely  rigorous  and  almost  relentless 
in  his  handing  of  the  contribution  bag.  Its 
tough,  hickory  handle  was  equal  to  the  full 
length  of  the  benches,  and  no  man,  woman,  or 
child  might  hope  to  evade  its  deliberate  pres 
entation  under  the  very  nose,  and  its  being 

141 


Oldfield 

steadily   held    there,    too,    until    Uncle    Watty 
thought  everybody's  duty  was  fully  done. 

When  there  was  a  fifth  Sunday  in  the  month, 
both  of  the  regular  preachers  came  to  the  vil 
lage,  inviting  any  other  preacher  who  chanced 
to  be  in  the  vicinity  to  join  in  the  debate  which 
then  took  the  place  of  the  sermon,  and  which 
was  held  in  the  court-house,  on  neutral  ground, 
as  it  were.  Sometimes  the  Cumberland  Presby 
terians  and  the  Hard-shell  Baptists  took  part, 
and  now  and  then  a  Foot- Washing  Baptist 
came  along,  so  that  these  fifth  Sundays  were 
usually  memorable  occasions  in  Oldfield.  Oc 
casionally,  to  be  sure,  there  was  some  slight 
friction,  as  was,  perhaps,  unavoidable  under  the 
circumstances ;  but,  on  the  whole,  this  rotation 
in  creeds  and  dogmas  gave  remarkable  general 
satisfaction.  The  exceptions  were  very  few 
and  purely  personal  in  character,  the  gravest 
and  most  important  growing  out  of  an  unfor 
tunate  dispute  between  Miss  Pettus  and  the 
Christian  elder  over  the  ownership  of  a  run 
away  pig.  The  controversy  ended  in  the 
reverend  gentleman's  getting  the  pig.  When, 
therefore,  on  the  following  Sunday — through 
some  singular  mischance  —  he  chose  as  a  text : 
"  Children,  have  ye  any  meat  ? "  Miss  Pettus 
not  unnaturally  felt  that  he  was  wantonly  add 
ing  insult  to  injury,  and,  rising  from  her  seat 
in  the  front  of  the  church,  the  indignant  lady 
—  holding  herself  haughtily  erect  and  her  head 
very  high  —  walked  straight  down  the  whole 
length  of  the  middle  aisle  and  out  through  the 

142 


Religion  in  Oldfield 

women's  door.  It  was  a  year  or  more  before 
she  could  be  induced  to  go  back  again  to  hear 
the  elder  preach,  notwithstanding  that  he  did 
everything  in  his  power  (like  the  good  man 
that  he  was)  to  convince  her  of  his  innocence 
of  any  thought  of  offence.  But  she  tried  to 
forgive  him  —  which  is  all  that  the  best  of  us 
can  do  —  and  she  ultimately  succeeded,  in  so 
far  that  she  returned  to  the  meeting-house  on 
his  day.  She  could  not  help,  however,  saying 
at  the  time,  when  coming  out,  how  much  she 
disliked  levity  in  the  pulpit,  be  it  Christian  or 
Methodist;  yet  she  admitted  afterward,  when 
cooler,  that  he  might  have  meant  no  irrever 
ence,  though  there  was  no  gainsaying  his  levity, 
when  he  announced  at  the  close  of  the  ser 
mon  that  he  would  preach  again  on  the  sec 
ond  Sunday,  "the  Lord  willing;"  but  that 
he  would  preach  again  on  the  fourth  Sunday 
"  whether  or  no."  There  are  always  plenty  of 
overcritical  people  besides  Miss  Pettus  to  be 
found  everywhere.  Some  of  those  living  in 
Oldfield  complained  that  the  circuit  rider 
pounded  so  much  dust  out  of  the  pulpit  cush 
ion  that  they  took  cold  from  continual  sneezing 
every  time  he  preached.  Others  were  inclined 
to  criticise  the  too  vigorous  elocution  of  the 
elder  when  he  warmed  to  the  warning  of  his 
flock  against  the  shifting  sands  of  dangerous 
doctrines,  bidding  them  build  their  house  of 
faith  upon  a  rock,  so  that  it  might  fall  n-o-t 
when  the  winds  b-l-e-w. 

Sidney,  who  called  herself  a  Whiskey  Baptist, 

143 


Oldfield 

and  who  consequently  regarded  herself  and  was 
regarded  by  others  as  something  of  a  free  lance 

—  in  theology  as  in  most  other  things,  —  used 
to  express  her  opinions  of  the  shortcomings  of 
both  the   Methodists  and  the  Christians  with 
entire  frankness,  but  always  more  in  jest  than  in 
earnest.     Indeed,  all  these  trivial  faultfindings 
were  no  more  than  the  passing  expression  of 
sectarian  jealousy,  and  harmless  as  heat  light 
ning,  so  that,  on  the  whole,  religion  flourished 
in  Oldfield. 

It  was  a  pleasant,  peaceful  sight  to  see  the 
people  coming  out  of  their  green-bowered  houses 
on  that  radiant  May  morning.  The  old  locust 
trees  were  at  the  sweetest  and  whitest  of  their 
flowering;  the  light,  fine  foliage  seemed  to 
float  on  the  south  breeze,  and  the  long  clusters 
of  snowy  flowers  swung  gently  to  and  fro  over 
the  heads  of  the  church-goers,  like  silvered 
censers  filling  the  air  with  richest  incense.  And 
there  at  the  base  of  every  fragile  spray  —  emblem 
of  life's  mortality — lay  the  bud  of  the  next  year's 
leaf  —  symbol  of  life's  immortality.  But  the 
simple  people,  walking  beneath,  went  on  their 
way  heeding  only  the  beauty,  and  the  sweetness, 
and  the  warmth  of  the  sunshine.  They  greeted 
one  another  after  the  friendly  custom  of  the 
country,  which  gave  a  greeting  even  to  strangers, 

—  and  these  church-goers  were  all  old  friends. 
Only  the  young  man  leaving  old  lady  Gordon's 
gate  might  be  accounted  a  stranger.     Yet  his 
ancestors   also  slept  on   the  highest,  greenest 
hillside,  under  the  long  grass  over  which  the 

144 


Religion  in  Oldfield 

soft  wind  was  running  with  swift,  invisible  feet. 
There  were  no  strangers  even  there,  where  all 
the  tombstones  bore  familiar  names ;  the  new 
ones  freshly  inscribed,  gleaming  white  and 
erect  against  the  green ;  the  older  ones  showing 
gray  as  they  leant ;  the  oldest,  lying  brown  and 
prone,  and  crumbling  slowly  back  to  earth. 

The  cracked  bell  of  the  wooden  church  rang 
with  the  homesick  sound,  full  of  a  homely  pathos 
that  richer-toned  bells  never  give  tongue  to.  In 
response  to  its  pathetic  call  the  people  went  on 
toward  the  meeting-house  in  little  groups,  chat 
ting  with  one  another.  Anne  Watson  was 

O 

among  the  first  now^  as  always,  when  the  preach 
ing  was  to  be  in  her  own  church.  Her  faith 
enjoined  the  weekly  "  breaking  of  bread,"  and 
it  had  ever  been  a  sore  trouble  to  her  that  the 
opportunity  was  not  given  oftener  than  twice 
a  month  in  her  own  church.  In  her  grave  un 
easiness  of  conscience  she  had  sought  to  do 
her  duty  in  the  other  church  whenever  she 
could.  But  this  had  been  before  her  husband 
was  stricken ;  since  that  time  she  had  not  felt 
compelled  to  leave  him,  except  for  the  service 
in  her  own  church.  But  the  feeling  that  she 
must  go  there  now  became  more  imperative  in 
its  demands,  if  possible,  than  it  ever  had  been. 
Therefore,  when  the  bell  began  to  ring  that 
day,  Anne  put  on  her  bonnet  and  came  to  take 
an  hour's  anxious  leave  of  her  husband. 

She  was  a  tall,  delicately  built  woman,  too  thin 
and  too  unbending  to  be  graceful,  and  yet  too 
quiet  and  too  dignified  to  be  awkward.      Her 
L  MS 


Oldfield 

straight  features  were  neither  noticeably  pretty 
nor  decidedly  plain,  and  her  face  was  pale  without 
being  fair.  Her  hair,  of  an  ashen  shade,  clung 
to  her  hollow  temples ;  there  was  not  one  loose 
lock,  or  the  suggestion  of  a  ripple  under  her 
quakerish  bonnet.  The  straight  skirt  of  her 
lead-colored  dress  hung  flat,  as  the  skirts  of 
such  women  always  hang,  falling  to  her  feet 
in  unbroken  lines.  It  was  her  eyes  alone  which 
made  Anne  Watson's  appearance  utterly  unlike 
that  of  any  other  woman  of  her  not  uncommon 
type.  And  even  her  eyes  were  neutral  in  color 
and  slightly  prominent,  as  the  eyes  of  such 
women  nearly  always  are,  but  so  singularly 
and  luminously  clear  that  a  white  light  seemed 
to  be  shining  behind  them. 

She  fixed  these  wonderful  eyes  on  her  hus 
band  as  she  stood  before  him  ready  for  church, 
and  yet  loath  to  leave  him,  and  still  lingering 
to  see  if  she  might  not  do  something  more  for 
his  comfort  during  her  absence.  She  drew  the 
stand  nearer  to  his  shaking  uncertain  hands,  after 
turning  the  pillows  at  his  helpless  back  and 
straightening  the  cushion  under  his  powerless 
feet.  When  she  could  find  nothing  more  to 
do,  she  bent  down  silently  and  kissed  his 
scarred  forehead.  There  was  nothing  for  her 
to  say,  nothing  for  him  to  hear.  At  the  door 
she  looked  back,  and  again  from  the  gate,  be 
fore  passing  out  to  hasten  toward  the  church 
as  though  her  haste  in  going  might  the  sooner 
fetch  her  back. 

All  along  the  big  road  the  people  were 
146 


Religion  in  Oldfield 

coming.  The  doctor  and  his  wife  were  not 
far  behind  Anne,  and  following  them  came 
Miss  Pettus  and  her  brother,  accompanied  by 
Sam  Mills.  The  old  man,  his  father,  was 
worse  that  morning,  or  thought  he  was,  which 
amounted  to  the  same  thing,  so  that  Kitty 
had  been  compelled  to  stay  at  home  as  usual ; 
but  she  leant  over  the  front  gate,  looking 
after  her  husband,  with  her  bare  red  arms  rolled 
in  her  apron  and  her  honest  face  beaming  with 
happy  smiles  as  she  hailed  the  passers-by,  until 
the  old  man's  harsh,  querulous  voice  was  heard 
calling  her  into  the  house.  From  the  opposite 
direction,  also,  the  pious  people  of  Oldfield  were 
approaching  the  meeting-house,  the  men  to 
enter  one  door  and  the  women  another.  Even 
the  children  were  strictly  divided,  the  boys 
sitting  with  their  fathers  and  the  girls  with 
their  mothers.  Once  when  a  man,  who  was  a 
stranger  and  unacquainted  with  Oldfield  cus 
toms,  wandered  in  and  unknowingly  took  a 
seat  on  the  women's  side,  a  scandalized  shock 
passed  over  the  entire  congregation.  It  was  a 
serious  matter,  to  be  gravely  discussed  for  many 
a  day  thereafter. 

On  the  church  steps  stood  Lynn  Gordon, 
intent  upon  watching  and  waiting  for  the 
coming  of  the  girl  whom  he  had  come  hoping 
to  see.  So  intent  was  he  that  he  was  not  aware 
of  the  glances  cast  upon  himself  by  those  pass 
ing  into  the  building.  Yet  he  was  well  worth 
looking  at,  for  he  was  a  handsome  young  fellow, 
and  dressed,  moreover,  as  no  one  had  ever  before 

147 


Oldfield 

been  dressed  in  Oldfield.  His  pantaloons,  made 
of  dove-colored  canton  cloth,  were  tight  beyond 
anything  ever  seen  in  that  part  of  the  country, 
and  held  to  his  high-heeled  varnished  boots  by 
a  strap  under  his  arched  instep.  His  long- 
waisted,  short-skirted  coat  of  dark  blue  was 
lined  and  trimmed  with  rich  goffered  silk. 
His  waistcoat  was  of  a  buff  color  and  en  pique, 
for,  strange  —  incredible,  indeed — as  it  may 
seem,  Paris  at  that  time  set  the  fashions  for 
fine  gentlemen  as  well  as  for  fine  ladies,  and 
the  London  papers  gravely  recorded  weekly 
what  the  Frenchmen  were  wearing.  Lynn 
Gordon's  hat,  too,  was  of  the  latest  French 
mode,  just  brought  over  for  the  Boston  dandies 
on  the  eve  of  his  leaving  Harvard.  Its  brim 
was  very  wide  and  slightly  curled,  and  its  crown 
was  high  and  widened  perceptibly  toward  the 
top.  His  tie,  a  large,  loose  bow  of  black  bro 
cade,  gave  the  final  touch  of  elegance. 

There  was  nothing  modish  in  poor  little, 
country-bred,  Doris's  dress  when  this  fine 
gentleman  saw  her  coming  behind  all  the  rest, 
after  he  had  almost  given  her  up.  The  skirt 
of  Miss  Judy's  book-muslin  was  much  too 
narrow  for  the  requirements  even  of  Oldfield 
fashions,  but  Doris  did  not  know  it,  and  the 
young  man  was  not  thinking  of  it  as  he  saw 
her  first,  far  up  the  big  road,  descending  its 
gradual  slope  beneath  the  flowering  locust 
trees.  The  gentle  breeze  caught  the  ivory 
softness  of  her  skirt,  pressing  it  into  enchanting 
curves  around  her  slender  limbs;  a  long,  thin 

148 


Religion  in  Oldfield 

white  scarf  streamed  back  from  her  shoulders, 
and  the  white  ribbons  of  her  straw  hat  floated 
out  behind  her  golden  head.  The  thought 
which  arose  in  Lynn's  mind  as  he  thus  saw  Doris 
approaching  was  not  of  any  fleeting  fashion,  but 
of  a  living  Winged  Victory  lovelier  than  any 
antique  sculpture. 

He  lingered  at  his  post  on  the  steps  till  she 
ascended  them  and  went  by  him  into  the  church, 
and  he  noted  the  little  flurry  of  delicate  color 
which  followed  her  shy  side  glance.  But  she 
did  not  pause,  entering  the  meeting-house  at 
once,  by  way,  of  course,  of  the  women's  door, 
and  going  straight  up  the  aisle  to  a  seat 
reserved  for  her  between  her  mother  and  Uncle 
Watty.  The  young  man  had  never  seen  either 
Sidney  or  her  brother-in-law,  but  he  knew 
who  they  were  as  soon  as  he  caught  sight 
of  them.  And  the  sight  was  something  of  a 
shock.  And  yet  what  did  it  matter,  after 
all  ?  he  asked  himself.  The  girl's  beauty  and 
refinement  of  appearance  were  only  the  more 
remarkable  because  she  came  of  such  humble, 
homely  people.  He  could  not  take  his  eyes  from 
the  heavy  braids  of  shining  gold  gleaming 
below  the  white  straw  hat;  and  although  he 
was  unable  to  see  the  beautiful  face  from  the 
place  in  which  he  sat,  he  was  nevertheless 
vividly  conscious  of  its  soft  dark  eyes  and  its 
exquisite  rose-red  mouth ;  and  he  fancied  that 
he  could  distinguish  her  voice  in  the  old- 
fashioned  hymn,  given  out  two  lines  at  a  time 
by  the  preacher. 

149 


Oldfield 

He  kept  the  back  of  the  charming  head  in 
view  all  down  the  aisle,  when  the  sermon  was 
over  and  the  congregation  arose  to  leave  the 
church.  But  Colonel  Fielding  was  at  the  outer 
end  of  the  bench  on  which  the  young  man  had 
been  seated,  and  it  required  some  minutes  for  the 
old  gentleman's  friends  to  help  him  regain  his 
feet.  Poor,  feeble  old  man !  And  then  every 
body  was  talking  to  everybody  else  while  passing 
down  the  aisle.  It  was  the  custom  in  Oldfield 
for  neighbors  thus  to  greet  one  another  after 
the  sermon,  and  Lynn  consequently  found  him 
self  hemmed  in  and  could  move  only  with  the 
crowd ;  so  that  notwithstanding  his  strenuous 
though  quiet  efforts  to  reach  the  door  of  the 
men's  side,  before  Doris  could  reach  the  en 
trance  on  the  women's  side,  she  had  already 
passed  out  and  was  well  on  her  way  homeward 
when  he  reached  the  big  road. 

He  was  keenly  disappointed,  and  stood  for  a 
moment  undecided  what  to  do  or  which  way 
to  go,  until  the  doctor  and  his  wife  spoke  to 
him.  They  were  almost  the  last  of  the  home- 
going  procession  at  that  end  of  the  village ; 
and  the  young  man  joined  them  in  the  lingering 
hope  that  the  girlish  figure  in  white,  fluttering 
ahead,  might  be  overtaken,  since  he  now  saw 
that  it  was  not,  after  all,  so  very  far  in  advance. 
Mrs.  Alexander  undoubtedly  would  present 
him,  so  he  thought ;  she  could  hardly  do  any 
thing  else;  and,  so  hoping,  he  walked  on  up 
the  big  road,  listening  as  best  he  could  to  what 
she  was  saying.  But  the  slender  young  shape 


Religion  in  Oldfield 

in  white  went  rapidly  on  and  did  not  linger, 
and  never  once  looked  back.  Sidney  turned 
at  the  gate  and  nodded  to  her  neighbors ;  but 
Doris  passed  through  it  without  pausing,  and 
disappeared  under  the  low  arch  of  silver  leaves. 
Again  Lynn  went  back  to  his  grandmother's 
house,  thinking  of  Doris,  but  again  he  refrained 
from  speaking  of  her,  although  he  hardly  knew 
why,  unless  it  was  because  he  shrank  from  the 
harshness  of  his  grandmother's  cynical  com 
ments.  Old  lady  Gordon  asked  about  many  of 
the  people  whom  he  had  seen  at  church,  but  it 
did  not  occur  to  her  to  mention  the  daughter  of 
Sidney  Wendall.  Nevertheless,  the  girl  clung 
to  Lynn's  thoughts  through  all  the  warm  idle 
afternoon  hours  of  the  perfect  spring  day.  Talk 
ing  half-heartedly,  absently,  of  other  things,  he 
still  thought  of  her,  even  until  the  evening, 
coming  little  by  little  to  think  of  her  as  the  most 
beautiful  girl  whom  he  had  ever  seen.  He  knew, 
upon  reflection,  that  meeting  her  was  merely  a 
question  of  a  short  time  in  a  place  so  small  as 
Oldfield ;  and  he  was  not  quite  sure  that,  after 
all,  he  really  wished  to  make  her  acquaintance. 
It  would  be  best,  perhaps,  considering  the  career 
which  he  had  laid  out  for  himself,  that  he  should 
know  as  few  young  women  as  possible.  More 
over,  it  seemed  most  unlikely,  from  all  that  he 
had  heard  of  Doris  Wendall  and  of  her  family 
and  training  and  environment,  that  she  could 
possess  any  charm  other  than  a  beautiful  face. 
Yet  at  the  same  time  he  ardently  admitted  that 
merely  to  look  upon  such  rare  beauty  was  a 


Oldfield 

delight  to  such  a  worshipper  of  beauty  as  he 
knew  himself  to  be. 

He  smiled  at  his  own  weakness  and  folly, 
when  he  found  himself  going  toward  the  tall 
poplars  at  the  close  of  the  long  day.  The  sup 
ple  tops  of  the  great  trees  bent  white  against  the 
darkening  sky.  But  although  the  leaves  no 
longer  dazzled  as  when  they  turned  their  silver 
lining  to  the  noonday  sunlight,  they  were  still 
too  restless  and  too  thick  to  be  seen  through, 
and,  smiling  again  at  his  foolish  craving  for 
another  glimpse  of  beauty,  the  young  man  went 
on,  hoping  for  better  luck  as  he  came  back. 
Going  beyond  the  eastern  hills  which  rimmed 
the  village,  he  paused  and  looked  down  and  far 
out  over  the  wide  lowlands;  at  the  emerald  seas 
of  wheat  flowing  with  waves  of  purple  shadows; 
at  the  springing  vivid  lines  of  young  corn, 
stretching  to  the  dim  distant  horizon ;  at  the 
rich,  dark  green  of  the  vast  tobacco  fields  already 
beginning  to  be  dotted  by  the  small,  thick-leaved 
plants  ;  at  the  red  herds,  and  at  the  white  flocks 
dimly  visible  through  the  fleecy  mists  trailing 
above  the  meadows.  He  stood  still,  leaning  on  a 
fence  and  listening  to  the  gentle  lowing  of  far-off 
cattle,  and  the  homely  barking  of  distant  dogs, 
which  were  the  most  distinct  sounds.  Then,  as 
he  listened,  lingering,  the  music  of  the  woods 
and  fields  grew  fainter  —  fainter,  till  it  became 
hushed  with  the  falling,  of  the  twilight.  Only 
the  whip-poor-will's  lonesome  cry  —  the  vesper 
bell  of  the  birds  —  rang  out  at  long  intervals 
from  the  dark  willows  fringing  a  far-away  stream. 

152 


Religion  in  Oldfield 

The  dusk  falls  very  slowly  and  very  softly 
over  the  Pennyroyal  Region,  settling  like  the 
exquisite  gray  down  from  some  wonderful  brown 
wings.  It  was  falling,  but  still  lingering  between 
daylight  and  darkness,  when  Lynn  Gordon  turned 
at  last  toward  the  village.  He  could  not  see 
the  people  sitting  in  Sunday  quiet  and  peace 
on  their  vine-wreathed  porches ;  but  he  heard 
them  talking  in  low  tones  of  the  humble  little 
things  that  make  the  sweetness  of  home.  A 
feeling  of  longing  came  over  him  such  as  he 
had  never  known  before ;  a  yearning  for  the 
home  which  had  never  been  his,  for  the  loved 
ones  whom  he  could  not  remember.  The  fire 
side  smell  of  smoking  tobacco  mingled  with  the 
scent  of  the  homely  flowers  blooming  in  the 
yards  and  gardens.  Great  white  moths  flut 
tered  back  and  forth  across  the  deserted  high 
way,  seeking  the  sweetest  of  those  shy  blossoms 
which  yield  their  beauty  and  fragrance  only  to 
the  gloaming. 

As  the  young  man  approached  the  poplars, 
sombre  now  as  cypress  trees  in  the  deepened 
twilight,  a  sudden  breeze  stirred  the  leaves 
and  swayed  the  branches.  But  the  fleeting 
glimpse  of  white  at  which  he  started  forward  so 
eagerly,  proved  to  be  nothing  more  than  a  bunch 
of  pale  roses  drooping  beside  the  window. 
There  was  not  a  glimmer  of  light  behind  the 
curtain,  and  as  he  strolled  on  along  the  big  road 
the  lights  in  all  the  houses  went  out  one  by  one, 
as  the  simple  people,  drowsy  from  the  day's 
unaccustomed  idleness,  sought  their  early  rest. 


Oldfield 

Tom  Watson's  lamp  alone  shone  afar,  throwing 
its  beams  a  long  way  down  the  big  road,  and  the 
sight  of  it  suddenly  touched  the  young  man's 
softened  heart  with  keenest  pity,  reminding  him, 
almost  reproachfully,  of  the  promise  which  he 
had  quite  forgotten. 

At  his  grandmother's  house  all  was  dark  and 
still ;  the  dogs  leaping  to  meet  him  knew  him 
well  enough  not  to  bark,  and  he  sat  down  on 
the  porch  to  smoke  a  cigar.  He  could  always 
think  more  clearly  when  smoking,  and  he 
wished  now  to  think  as  clearly  as  possible. 
For  the  past  two  days  his  thoughts  had  been 
wandering,  as  he  rarely  allowed  them  to  wander, 
far  away  from  his  life  plans.  Firmly  he  now 
bent  them  back;  intently  he  surveyed  every 
up-hill  step  in  the  direction  of  his  high  ambi 
tion  ;  calmly  he  faced  the  full  length  and  diffi 
culty  of  the  struggle  between  him  and  his  goal, 
without  thought  of  faltering  or  fear  of  failure. 
He  said  to  himself,  as  the  young  who  have 
never  measured  their  strength  against  their 
weakness  often  say  to  themselves :  — 

"  I  will  not  do  any  of  those  things  which  I 
firmly  set  on  that  side ;  I  will  do  all  these 
things  which  I  calmly  range  on  this  side :  the 
shaping  of  a  man's  life  lies  in  his  own  hand ;  it 
has  but  to  be  powerful  enough  to  grasp  and 
firm  enough  to  hold." 

It  is  easy  to  be  calm  and  common  to  be  sure 
on  starting  in  life's  race.  And,  indeed,  this 
young  fellow  was  better  trained  and  equipped 
for  the  running  of  it  than  most  young  men  are. 


Religion  in  Oldfield 

Feeling  this  intelligently,  but  without  undue 
conceit,  he  now  threw  back  his  broad  shoulders 
and  lifted  his  proud  head.  The  arrogance  of 
youth  takes  no  heed  of  the  slight  chances  that 
defeat  great  plans,  no  heed  even  of  the  divinity 
that  shapes  mortal  hewing.  He  looked  absently 
at  the  red  rim  of  the  climbing  moon,  and  scarcely 
noting  that,  as  its  disk  grew  larger  and  its 
beams  grew  brighter,  a  mocking-bird,  at  home 
with  his  beloved  in  one  of  the  giant  elms,  began 
a  murmuring  melody,  as  though  he  were  woo 
ing  his  mate  in  dreams.  Yet,  as  the  paling, 
brightening  moon  arose  higher  and  higher,  till 
it  hung  a  great  shield  of  burnished  silver  on 
night's  starry  wall,  the  mocking-bird's  song 
grew  clearer  and  sweeter,  till,  soaring  to  the 
moonlit  heavens,  it  arose  to  a  very  pean  of 
love  triumphant. 


XI 

BODY   OR    SOUL 

LYNN  set  out  on  his  errand  of  mercy  very  early 
the  next  morning.  The  eternal  freshness  of 
dawn  seemed  still  to  be  lingering  amid  the 
cool  shadows  of  the  wooded  hillsides.  The 
woods  and  fields  alike  were  still  bubbling  with 
matin  song.  Heavy  drops  of  dew  still  hung 
on  the  blue-eyed  grass,  sparkling  in  the  sun 
light  like  happy  tears. 

The  doctor,  however,  was  ready  and  waiting. 
The  day's  work  began  with  the  sunrise  in  Old- 
field,  and  no  one  in  all  the  region  round  had 
more  to  do  between  the  rising  and  the  setting 
of  the  sun,  or  indeed  between  its  setting  and 
rising  again,  than  John  Alexander  always  had. 
Ah,  those  village  doctors  of  the  old  time !  It 
is  known  in  a  way  to  all  who  think,  how  large 
a  part  they  must  have  had  in  the  making  of 
these  far-off  corners  of  our  great  country,  and 
yet  the  greater  part  can  never  be  known.  A 
doctor's  memory  is  the  greatest  catholic  con 
fessional  of  humanity  —  and  forever  sacred.  It 
is  only  the  trivial,  the  whimsical  outer  edges  of 
the  deep  experiences  of  these  old-time  country 
doctors  that  history  may  ever  touch.  Being 
human,  they  growled  aloud  sometimes  over 

156 


Body  or  Soul 

these  trifles,  as  the  doctor  was  growling  when 
Lynn  Gordon  found  him  on  that  May  morning. 

A  patient,  a  sufferer  from  chills  and  fever, 
which  were  still  the  scourge  of  the  Ohio  low 
lands,  had  come  to  him  on  the  day  before  for 
quinine.  The  doctor  had  given  it  to  him  in 
solution,  the  only  form  in  which  it  was  then 
known  to  country  practitioners.  Quinine  was 
a  costly  medicine  in  those  days,  under  the  heavy 
tax  which  was  removed  long  afterwards  through 
the  most  earnest  and  even  impassioned  efforts 
of  a  Kentucky  statesman,  who,  in  a  memorable 
speech,  eloquently  implored  Congress  to  keep,  if 
it  would,  its  tax  on  silks  and  laces  and  precious 
stones  but  —  for  humanity's  sake  —  to  allow  his 
constituency  to  have  all  the  free  quinine  that 
they  wanted. 

"  I  gave  this  chap  a  big  bottle  of  quinine," 
the  doctor  said.  "  He  paid  a  stiff  price  for  it, 
too,  and  I  saw  him  put  it  in  his  saddle-bags 
with  great  care.  Nevertheless,  he  managed 
somehow  to  crack  the  bottle,  and,  when  only  a 
part  of  the  way  home  he  found  that  it  was  leak 
ing.  He  couldn't  think  of  losing  the  quinine, 
—  it  had  cost  too  much,  —  and  he  saved  it  by 
drinking  that  whole  bottleful  at  a  gulp.  Well, 
he  certainly  had  the  benefit  of  it,  none  of  it  was 
wasted ;  but  I  feel  a  little  tired  from  being  up 
most  of  the  night  and  having  had  pretty  brisk 
work  to  keep  him  alive.  What  fools  these  mor 
tals  be ; "  the  doctor  yawned,  as  he  struck  his 
pine  musingly  on  the  porch  railing,  thus  ranging 
his  thoughts  while  clearing  his  pipe  of  ashes. 

157 


Oldfield 

"  And  here's  this  other  hard  job,  that's  quite  as 
unnecessary,  on  hand  for  to-day,  and  no  more 
to  be  shirked  or  put  off  than  the  other  was. 
Well,  come  along,"  he  said,  reluctantly  laying 
down  his  pipe,  the  sole  luxury  that  he  allowed 
himself.  "  We  may  as  well  be  going ;  '  'twere 
well  it  were  done  quickly,' "  he  quoted  again, 
for  this  rugged  country  doctor  knew  his  Shake 
speare  as  a  man  may  know  a  book  when  he  reads 
only  one. 

They  went  down  the  porch  steps,  talking  of 
indifferent  matters,  pausing  a  moment  at  the 
gate,  long  enough  for  Lynn  to  speak  a  few 
words  in  return  for  the  greeting  which  the 
doctor's  wife  gave  him  from  the  window. 
The  Watson  house  was  near  by,  —  only  a  few 
paces  down  the  big  road,  —  and  they  were  almost 
immediately  standing  before  its  open  door. 
There  the  doctor  halted  with  the  look  of  one 
who  musters  his  forces  after  having  set  his 
thoughts  in  order.  He  drew  himself  up  and 
threw  back  his  shoulders  as  if  settling  to  a 
firm  purpose  with  .  new  determination,  and 
he  finally  buttoned  his  coat.  That  poor  old 
shabby  coat !  Ah !  that  dear  old  coat !  So 
eloquent  in  its  faced  shabbiness  of  the  many 
fierce  storms  and  the  many  merciless  suns 
which  had  beaten  upon  his  tireless  ministra 
tions  to  suffering  humanity !  And  the  button 
ing  of  the  doctor's  old  coat  was  always  as  the 
girding  of  a  warrior's  armor  for  battle. 

The  young  man  standing  beside  him  on  the 
steps  gave  him  a  careless  side  glance.  He  did 

158 


Body  or  Soul 

not  understand  the  meaning  of  what  he  saw, 
and  he  merely  smiled  at  its  apparent  absurdity. 
A  moment  later  he  followed  the  doctor  into  the 
house,  all  unafraid,  as  youth  often  enters  upon 
the  most  appalling  of  the  mysteries  of  living. 

It  was  Anne  who  met  them  and  gave  them 
an  impassive  good-morning,  and  silently  led 
them  into  the  room  in  which  her  husband  was 
sitting.  The  sick  man,  propped  up  in  his  usual 
seat  by  the  window,  looked  round  when  they 
came  in,  and  murmured  some  indistinct  greet 
ing.  But  his  miserable,  restless  eyes  went  back 
almost  at  once  to  their  ceaseless  quest  of  the 
deserted  big  road,  stretching  dully  toward  the 
dim,  distant  horizon. 

"  How  are  you  to-day,  Tom  ? "  asked  the  doc 
tor,  perfunctorily,  and  then  he  continued  with 
out  waiting  for  a  reply  to  his  inquiry,  "  We  are 
not  going  to  let  you  mope  like  this,  old  boy. 
I've  been  trying  to  think  of  something  to  help 
you  —  to  fill  the  time.  It's  after  a  man  gets 
out  of  bed  that  the  worst  tug  comes — while  he 
is  still  tied  to  the  house  and  yet  not  actually  ill. 
We  mustn't  let  him  mope,  must  we,  Anne  ? " 
he  said. 

He  turned  to  the  silent,  motionless  woman 
who  sat  by  without  so  much  as  the  natural 
feminine  rustle  of  garments. 

Anne  looked  at  him  through  the  white  light 
of  her  clear  eyes,  but  she  did  not  speak.  She 
had  been  well  called  a  "still-tongued  woman." 

The  doctor,  glancing  away,  went  on  un 
easily,  yet  determinedly :  — 


Oldfield 

"  But  I  am  not  sure  what  Tom  would  like. 
I  don't  think  he  cares  for  backgammon  or 
checkers  or  dominoes  or  any  of  those  milk- 
and-water  games.  You  don't  know  anything 
about  chess,  do  you,  Tom  ? "  he  asked. 

The  stricken  man  made  no  reply ;  he  could 
utter  but  few  words  and  those  only  with  in 
distinctness  and  difficulty.  He  did  not  even 
turn  his  head ;  the  turning  of  it  ever  so  slowly 
was  hard  and  caused  him  great  pain. 

"  I  scarcely  think  chess  would  be  the  thing 
anyway  —  it's  too  heavy  and  requires  too  much 
thinking  to  be  good  for  an  invalid.  You  must 
have  something  light  and  amusing.  That's  the 
sort  of  game  we  must  give  you  to  keep  you  from 
moping." 

The  doctor  spoke  to  the  husband,  but  his 
eyes  were  on  the  wife  and  regarding  her  anx 
iously,  though  his  lips  were  smiling. 

There  was  no  responsive  smile  on  Anne's 
pale  face.  It  was  quite  still  and  grave  as  it 
always  was,  but  a  thin  cloud  of  alarm  seemed 
suddenly  rising  in  her  clear  gaze,  as  white  smoke 
floats  over  the  crystalline  sky  of  a  winter's  day. 
But  yet  she  said  not  a  word. 

The  doctor  also  fell  unexpectedly  silent,  with 
his  eyes  fixed  sternly  on  the  back  of  the  sick 
man's  chair  and  a  frown  gathering  between  his 
shaggy,  grizzled  brows,  as  it  always  gathered 
when  he  was  sorely  perplexed.  He  was  only 
an  old-fashioned  country  doctor  —  merely  a 
good  man  first  and  scientist  afterwards.  So 
that  he  now  sat  speechless,  casting  about  in 

1 60 


Body  or  Soul 

his  troubled  thoughts  for  the  gentlest  words 
wherewith  he  must  wound  the  quiet,  pale-faced 
woman,  whose  very  lack  of  comprehension 
appealed  to  his  great  heart  as  all  helplessness 
did.  He  saw,  as  only  doctors  can  see,  how 
frail  was  the  body  holding  this  strenuous  spirit. 
As  he  thus  sat  silent,  gathering  courage,  the 
utter  stillness  of  the  room  grew  tense.  The 
young  man,  sitting  on  the  other  side  of  the 
chamber,  silent  and  ill  at  ease,  moved  uneasily, 
keeping  his  eyes  on  the  floor.  The  soft,  monot 
onous  murmur  of  the  bees  in  the  honeysuckle 
over  the  window  sounded  unnaturally  loud  and 
shrill. 

At  last  the  doctor  spoke  distinctly  and  firmly, 
but  without  looking  at  Anne  :  — 

"  There  is  only  one  thing  to  do.  We  must 
find  a  partner  for  Tom  —  Mr.  Gordon  here  has 
kindly  offered — and  we  must  give  him  a  real 
good,  lively  game  of  cards." 

It  was  out  now,  and  he  was  glad  and  sorry  at 
the  same  time. 

Anne  gave  a  startled  cry,  inarticulate,  like 
the  terror  of  a  dumb  creature.  She  recoiled 
as  if  a  black  pit  had  opened  at  her  feet. 

"  Tom's  need  is  very  great.  He  is  very,  very 
weak,"  the  doctor  urged,  in  the  space  of  the 
recoil. 

Anne  instantly  flew  to  her  husband  as  the 
mother  bird  flies  to  the  fallen  fledgling,  and 
laid  her  little  trembling  hands  on  his  broken 
shoulders,  as  the  mother  bird  spreads  her  weak 
wings  between  helplessness  and  danger. 
M  161 


Oldfield 

"  I  will  take  care  of  him,"  she  said,  speaking 
out  of  that  tender,  protecting  maternal  instinct 
which  is  the  divine  part  of  every  good  woman's 
love  for  her  husband. 

"  I  can  see  no  other  way,"  the  doctor  urged 
gently,  not  knowing  what  else  to  say. 

"There  must  be  some  other  way!  Surely 
our  Father  never  forces  us  to  commit  sin. 
Surely  in  His  mercy  He  gives  us  a  choice ; " 
Anne  panted,  like  a  frightened  wild  creature  at 
bay. 

Yet  she  faced  the  two  men  steadily  over  her 
husband's  powerless  head,  her  clear  eyes  clouded 
darkly  now,  and  her  set  face  as  white  and  as 
inscrutable  as  the  cold  mask  of  death. 

"  I  can  only  say  again  what  I  have  said 
before,"  the  doctor  repeated  weakly,  glancing  at 
Anne  and  quickly  looking  away. 

"  The  way  will  mercifully  be  opened  unto 
me.  A  light  will  be  shown  as  a  lamp  to  my 
feet." 

Anne's  murmured  words  were  barely  to  be 
heard,  yet  they  bore,  nevertheless,  to  the  three 
men  who  listened,  the  full  strength  of  her  faith, 
firm  as  the  Rock  of  Ages. 

The  doctor  arose  hurriedly  and  went  out 
into  the  passage,  and  stood  for  a  while  in  the 
doorway,  looking  at  the  quiet  big  road,  at  the 
peace  of  the  green  earth,  and  at  the  sunlight 
flooding  the  blue  heavens.  When  he  turned 
back  his  sunken  eyes  were  wet  and  he  could 
not  meet  Anne's  gaze  nor  the  sick  man's,  which 
was  also  turned  upon  him  with  all  its  dumb, 

162 


Body  or  Soul 

restless,  desperate  misery  —  with  all  its  terrible 
voiceless  clamor  for  relief. 

"  I  don't  know  what  to  do,"  he  said,  trying  to 
speak  lightly,  but  sighing  in  spite  of  himself 
and  spreading  out  his  hands.  "  I  suppose  we'll 
have  to  give  it  up,  Tom,  old  fellow.  Well, 
maybe  Anne  knows  best  after  all.  These  wives 
of  ours  usually  do  know  better  what  is  good 
for  us  than  we  know  ourselves.  A  good  wife 
is  always  more  to  be  depended  upon  than  medi 
cine  when  a  man's  pulling  through  a  tedious 
convalescence.  You  don't  need  any  more  medi 
cine.  I  am  coming,  though,  every  day,  if  I  can 
—  just  as  a  neighbor,  to  see  how  you  are  get 
ting  along." 

He  turned  away  from  the  sick  man.  He 
could  not  look  at  him  without  being  compelled 
to  renew  the  struggle  with  Anne;  that  infinitely 
cruel,  that  ineffably  piteous  struggle  which 
wrung  his  own  heart,  and  which  would  be  use 
less  in  the  end.  He  took  one  of  Anne's  cold 
little  hands  in  his  warm  large  clasp,  thinking 
how  small  and  weak  it  was  to  hold  so  firmly 
to  its  mistaken  ideals,  how  much  more  firm 
than  his  own,  which  was  not  strong  enough  to 
hold  to  an  unmistakable  duty.  And  then  he 
and  Lynn  Gordon  went  away,  as  best  they 
could,  go,  both  feeling  as  the  conscientious  and 
the  impressionable  must  always  feel  after  hav 
ing,  however  unwillingly,  stirred  the  depths  of 
the  deep,  still  pool  of  another's  life. 

Out  of  the  house,  and  out  of  hearing,  the 
doctor  became,  however,  once  more  himself 

163 


in  a  measure.  He  smote  his  powerful  thigh 
with  his  strong  hand,  and  upbraided  himself 
aloud  for  most  disgraceful  moral  cowardice. 
He  convicted  himself,  almost  in  a  shout,  of  hav 
ing  deserted  Tom  Watson — poor  devil  —  and 
of  having  virtually  run  away,  like  the  veriest 
coward,  simply  because  he  knew  that,  in  a  mo 
ment  more,  he  would  have  been  crying  like  any 
child.  And  all  on  account  of  the  silly  fanaticism 
of  a  woman  with  a  mind  no  wider  than  a  cam 
bric  needle  —  sheer  foolishness,  morbid  senti 
mentality —  and  much  more  of  the  same  tenor, 
while  Lynn  Gordon  laughed  at  him  a  little 
nervously. 

"  But,  foolish  or  wise,  she  believes  what  she 
does  believe.  By  the  eternal,  I'd  like  to  hear 
any  man  doubt  it !  Why,  young  sir,  that  little 
slim,  unbending  splinter  of  a  woman  is  the 
stuff  that  they  threw  to  the  beasts  in  old 
Rome ! " 

There  was  no  consciousness  of  heroism  in 
Anne's  own  sadly  humble  thoughts.  When 
the  doctor  and  the  young  man  were  gone,  she 
bent  down  silently  and  kissed  her  husband  with 
tender  timidity,  as  if  begging  his  forgiveness  for 
what  she  could  not  help.  Kneeling  by  his  side, 
as  she  often  knelt  in  her  unwearying  service, 
she  strove  to  look  into  his  averted  face,  and  to 
meet  and  to  hold  his  miserable  eyes  with  her 
own  clear  gaze,  from  which  the  clouds  were  fast 
drifting  away.  The  white  light  behind  her 
strange  eyes  had  sunk  low  under  the  shock, 

164 


Body  or  Soul 

and  had  died  out  in  the  stress  of  terror ;  but 
it  was  gradually  beginning  to  rise  and  shine 
again  through  the  crystal  windows  of  her  soul. 
Her  husband  did  not  look  at  her;  he  seemed 
not  to  hear  what  she  said ;  he  was  staring 
after  the  two  men  who  were  walking  away 
down  the  big  road,  his  look  straining  to  follow 
them  as  a  chained  animal  strains  its  fetters 
toward  companionship.  Anne  saw  nothing  of 
this ;  she  was  not  a  bright  woman,  and  entirely 
without  imagination.  She  saw  only  that  he 
did  not  notice  her,  that  she  was  far  from  his 
thoughts.  And  she  was  used  to  being  over 
looked  by  her  husband,  and  accustomed  to 
being  forgotten  by  him.  She  arose  and  went 
quietly  across  the  room,  and  brought  a  foot 
stool,  and  sat  down  upon  it  by  his  side,  laying 
her  head  on  the  arm  of  his  chair,  with  her 
hands  folded  on  her  lap. 

She  was  not  weeping,  — she  had  never  been 
a  crying  woman,  —  and  in  truth  she  was  not 
more  unhappy  at  this  moment  than  she  had 
been  for  years.  She  was,  indeed,  even  less  un 
happy,  now  that  the  shock  was  well  over  and 
the  danger  safely  passed.  A  feeling  of  peace 
was  in  truth  already  hovering  in  her  breast, 
though  very  timidly,  as  a  frightened  dove 
comes  slowly  back  to  its  nest.  This  spirit  of 
peace  had  begun  to  brood  in  Anne's  lonely 
heart  soon  after  her  husband's  hurt,  although 
Anne  herself  was  scarcely  aware  of  the  fact. 
Through  the  endless  months  of  his  greatest 
suffering  she  had  been  not  only  upheld,  but 

165 


Oldficld 

comforted,  by  the  growing  belief  —  changing 
little  by  little  to  exaltation — that  the  torture  was 
but  a  fiery  furnace  intended  for  the  purification 
of  her  husband's  soul  and  her  own  —  for  she, 
too,  suffered  with  every  pang  which  wrenched 
his  shattered  body.  It  was  a  terrible  faith,  and 
yet  it  was  the  faith  of  the  martyrs ;  and  Anne 
held  not  back  from  sealing  it,  as  they  sealed 
it,  with  life  itself,  —  ay  !  even  unto  the  dear 
life  of  her  husband,  which  was  infinitely  dearer 
to  her  than  her  own.  For  she  loved  him  as 
none  save  a  nature  such  as  hers  can  love;  with 
an  intense,  narrow,  almost  fierce  and  wholly 
terrible  concentration.  It  was  a  love  which 
had  almost  entirely  excluded  every  one  else ; 
not  only  every  other  man,  but  her  father  and 
mother  and  sisters  and  brothers,  all  had  been 
shut  out  from  her  inmost  heart,  from  her  earli 
est  youth  till  this  latest  moment  when  she  sat 
unnoticed  by  her  husband's  side.  He  had 
never  loved  her  with  the  best  love  that  he 
was  capable  of  giving.  Love  is  perhaps  never 
quite  equal,  certainly  it  never  seems  equal,  in 
any  marriage.  The  one  always  loves  more, 
or  less,  than  the  other.  And  then,  in  circum 
scribed  lives,  such  as  Anne's  and  Tom's  were, 
both  men  and  women  choose  the  one  whom 
they  prefer  from  among  the  few  whom  they 
chance  to  know;  they  cannot  choose  from  a 
large  number  which  might  possibly  have  in 
duced  a  different  selection.  But  the  width  of 
the  world  would  not  have  altered  Anne's  choice. 
And  a  love  like  hers  changes  no  more  with 

166 


Body  or  Soul 

time  than  it  is  influenced  by  environment;  it  is 
too  little  of  the  flesh,  and  too  much  of  the  spirit 
to  age,  or  to  wither,  or  to  grow  cold.  Even 
her  husband's  neglect  had  made  no  difference 
through  all  the  unhappy  years  of  her  married 
life ;  even  his  disregard  of  religion  did  not 
lessen  or  alter  her  love,  although  it  put  her  and 
her  husband  farther  apart  than  they  might  other 
wise  have  been,  and  came  nearer  than  all  else 
to  breaking  her  heart.  She  could  bear  the  loss 

O 

of  happiness  in  her  daily  life  ;  she  could  bear  to 
be  deprived  of  her  husband's  society  day  after 
day  and  night  after  night,  by  interests  and  asso 
ciations  in  which  she  had  no  part,  —  living  was 
but  waiting,  anyway,  to  Anne.  But  she  could 
not  bear  the  thought  of  the  Long  Time  with 
out  the  beloved.  To  Anne,  as  much  as  to  any 
mediaeval  saint  in  any  rock-ribbed  cell,  the 
longest,  happiest  earthly  life  measured  nothing 
against  a  glorious  eternity.  Her  husband  was 
handsome,  spirited,  high-hearted,  masterful,  com 
pelling,  and  kind,  too,  in  his  careless  way;  another 
woman  might  have  been  happy  and  proud  to  be 
his  wife ;  but  Anne's  heart  had  ached  from  first 
to  last  for  the  one  thing  of  which  she  never 
spoke,  and  for  which  she  was  always  praying. 

Then  came  the  accident,  striking  down  the 
strong  man  at  the  height  of  his  powers,  as  the 
lightning  blasts  the  mighty  oak  in  full  leaf. 
Stunned  at  first,  Anne,  rallying,  felt  the  blow 
as  a  manifestation  of  offended  Power.  A  mind 
like  hers  works  in  strangely  tortuous  ways. 
But  after  a  while  she  began  to  see  in  this 

167 


Oldfield 

awful  affliction  a  means  of  grace  thus  given, 
when  all  else  had  failed ;  and  it  was  then  that 
the  wan  ghost  of  happiness  began  to  visit 
Anne's  desolate  breast.  The  world  had  been 
violently  wrenched  away  from  her  husband's 
grasp,  which  otherwise  would,  most  likely,  never 
have  loosed ;  it  might  perhaps  now  come  to 
pass  —  through  mercy  cloaked  in  cruelty  — 
that  his  thoughts  would  turn  heavenward.  So 
poor  Anne  thought,  and  thus  it  was  that  when, 
to  all  outward  seeming,  the  husband's  hopeless 
convalescence  was  the  last  settling  down  of 
darkest  despair,  in  reality  a  shining  rainbow 
of  hope  first  began  to  span  the  wife's  long- 
clouded  content. 

Was  it  then  possible  for  Anne  to  listen  for 
a  moment  to  this  incredible,  monstrous,  destroy 
ing  thing  which  the  doctor  had  urged  ?  Could 
she  by  listening  endanger  this  late-coming 
chance  for  the  salvation  of  her  husband's  soul 
in  consenting  to  the  sinful  relief  of  his  bodily 
need  ?  The  thought  of  yielding  never  crossed 
her  mind,  nor  the  shade  of  a  shadow  of  doubt 
that  she  was  right.  It  was  to  her  simply  a 
question  of  her  conscience  standing  firm  against 
her  love.  Anne  —  fortunate  in  this,  however  un 
fortunate  in  all  other  respects  —  always  saw  the 
way  before  her,  open,  and  straight,  and  very,  very 
narrow.  To  her  clear  sight  a  sharp,  distinct  line 
ever  divided  right  from  wrong;  on  this  side  every 
thing  was  snow-white,  on  that  side  everything 
was  jet-black.  There  were  no  myriad  middle 
shades  of  gray  to  bewilder  Anne's  crystal  gaze. 

168 


Body  or  Soul 

Living  were  less  hard  for  some  of  us  —  some, 
too,  as  conscientious  as  Anne  —  if  all  could  see, 
or  even  think  they  see,  as  clearly  through  the 
whitish,  grayish,  blackish  mists,  so  that  they 
also  might  be  able  unerringly  to  tell  where  the 
pure  white  ends  and  the  real  black  begins. 


169 


XII 

MISS  JUDY'S  LITTLE  WAYS 

WHEN  the  doctor's  deep  voice  roared  out 
what  he  thought  of  any  man  who  failed  in  his 
duty  for  fear  of  offending  anybody's  prejudices, 
Miss  Judy,  who  was  busy  among  the  shrubbery 
in  her  yard,  overheard  him,  and  was  quite  fright 
ened  by  the  severity  of  his  tone,  though  she  did 
not  catch  the  words.  She  knew  him  to  be  the 
mildest  of  absent-minded  men,  and  she  accord 
ingly  fluttered  around  the  house,  wondering  what 
could  be  the  matter. 

She  had  been  engaged  in  tying  up  a  rose 
bush  which  grew  at  the  side  of  the  door,  and 
which  was  too  heavy  laden  with  its  sweet  bur 
den  of  blush  roses.  She  was  holding  a  big 
bunch  in  her  hand  as  she  hurried  toward  the 
gate,  blushing  when  she  saw  the  gentlemen,  till 
her  delicate  face  was  as  pink  as  the  freshest 
among  her  roses.  The  doctor  brightened  and 
smiled,  as  everybody  brightened  and  smiled  at 
the  sight  of  Miss  Judy.  He  opened  the  gate 
before  she  reached  it,  knowing  that  she  would 
never  tempt  ill  luck  by  shaking  hands  over  it. 
When  they  had  shaken  hands,  he  presented 
Lynn  Gordon,  whom  she  had  not  met,  and  who 
stood  a  little  apart,  thinking  what  a  pretty  old 
]ady  she  was. 

170 


Miss  Judy's  Little  Ways 

'Miss  Judy,"  said  the  doctor,  before  she  had 
time  to  ask  what  had  happened,  "  what  do  you 
think  of  playing  poker  ?  " 

"Mercy  —  me!"  exclaimed  Miss  Judy,  open 
ing  her  blue  eyes  very  wide  in  blank  amaze 
ment.  And  then,  catching  her  breath,  she 
became  mildly  scandalized. 

"  Well  —  really,  doctor  !  "  she  began,  blushing 
more  vividly,  making  her  little  mouth  smaller 
than  usual,  "  primping  "  it,  as  she  would  have 
said,  and  bridling  with  the  daintiest  little  air  of 
prudery,  which  she  never  would  have  dreamt 
of  putting  on  for  the  doctor  alone,  but  which 
seemed  to  her  to  be  the  proper  manner  before 
a  strange  young  gentleman  —  and  one  frora 
Boston  too.  "  I  have  never  been  required  to 
think  anything  of  any  gambling  game!  Such 
matters  were  left  entirely  to  gentlemen;  they 
were  not  mentioned  before  ladies  in  my  day." 

"  Bless  your  little  heart ! "  exclaimed  the  doc 
tor.  "  If  I've  said  a  word  that  you  don't  like, 
I'm  ready  to  go  right  down  on  my  knees  in  the 
dust  —  here  and  now  —  in  the  middle  of  the 
big  road." 

Miss  Judy  smiled,  shaking  her  little  head  till 
the  thin  curls  behind  her  pretty  ears  were  more 
like  silver  mist  than  ever.  In  gentle  confusion 
she  began  dividing  the  bunch  of  blush  roses 
into  halves,  giving  one  to  the  doctor  and  the 
other  to  Lynn.  She  had  known  his  father,  she 
said  shyly  to  the  young  man,  and  his  mother 
also,  although  not  so  well,  since  the  latter  had 
not  been  brought  up  in  Oldfield  as  his  father  was. 

171 


Oldfield 

"  But,  Miss  Judy,  I  want  to  talk  to  you 
seriously  about  card-playing,"  the  doctor  per 
sisted.  "  You  see  you  have  got  us  all  into  the 
selfish  habit  of  bringing  every  one  of  our  burdens 
to  lay  them  on  your  little  shoulders.  Unselfish 
ness  like  yours  does  harm ;  it  breeds  selfishness 
in  others." 

Miss  Judy  protested  that  she  had  not  the 
least  idea  of  what  he  was  talking  about;  but 
she  saw  that  he  was  in  earnest,  and  she  straight 
way  forgot  all  her  quaint  airs,  and  listened  with 
deepest  interest  and  tenderest  sympathy  to  his 
story  of  his  perplexity  over  the  hopeless  case 
of  Tom  Watson,  and  over  the  unbending  atti 
tude  of  Anne. 

"  The  passion  for  gaming  is  just  as  strong  in 
that  poor  fellow  as  it  ever  was.  I  had  sus 
pected  it  before,  but  I  wasn't  sure  until  to-day," 
the  doctor  went  on,  looking  across  the  way  at 
the  sick  man's  window.  "  I  disapprove  of  gam 
bling  as  much  as  any  one,  but  I  can't  for  the 
life  of  me  see  any  harm  that  could  possibly 
come  now  to  that  poor  unfortunate,  from  any 
sort  of  a  game  —  if  anybody  can  possibly  stand 
it  to  play  with  him." 

Miss  Judy  looked  puzzled  and  a  little  alarmed. 
"  Were  you  —  do  you  wish  me  to  play  with 
him  ?  "  she  faltered,  rather  shocked,  yet  wonder 
ing  if  she  could  learn,  and  quite  ready  to  try. 

The  doctor  was  too  deeply  absorbed  —  too 
seriously  troubled  —  to  smile  as  he  usually  did 
at  Miss  Judy's  sweet  absurdities,  appreciating 
them  almost  as  much  as  he  valued  her  heart 

17* 


Miss  Judy's  Little  Ways 

of  gold.  In  truth  he  hardly  heard  what  she 
said. 

"  Maybe  you  can  make  Anne  see  how  differ 
ent  things  are  now,"  he  went  on  musingly,  and 
somewhat  hesitatingly,  as  though  the  possibility 
had  suddenly  occurred  to  him.  "  Women  under 
stand  one  another,"  he  added,  uttering  a  fallacy 
accepted  by  many  a  sensible  man  and  rejected 
by  every  sensible  woman. 

The  fair  old  face  on  the  other  side  of  the 
gate  grew  grave  in  its  perplexity.  Quick  to 
decide  for  herself  in  any  matter  of  principle, 
Miss  Judy  wras  slow  to  decide  for  any  one  else. 
She  did  not  consider  herself  wise,  and  it  was 
hard,  she  thought,  for  the  wisest  to  put  herself 
in  another's  place,  and  no  one  —  so  she  believed 
—  could  judge  justly  without  so  doing.  She 
knew  Anne's  prejudice,  that  had  been  well 
known  always  to  all  the  Oldfield  people ;  but 
she  had  never  ventured  to  form  an  opinion  as  to 
whether  Anne  had  ever  been  justified  in  taking 
such  a  stand,  which  appeared  strange  to  Miss 
Judy  even  in  the  beginning,  and  stranger  now 
in  Tom's  extremity.  She  had  merely  wondered, 
as  everybody  had ;  but  it  was  always  harder  for 
Miss  Judy  than  for  almost  any  one  else  to 
understand  how  there  ever  could  be  any  actual 
conflict  between  love  and  faith,  which  were 
always  and  inseparably  one  and  the  same  to 
her. 

"  I  am  not  sure,"  she  faltered,  with  a  flutter 
of  timidity,  and  blushing  again.  "  Anne  is  such 
a  good  woman  —  so  much  better  and  wiser 

173 


Oldfield 

than  I  am  —  and  so  very  reserved.  I  should 
hardly  dare  approach  her,  even  if  I  were  sure  of 
being  in  the  right  And  I  am  far  from  being  sure. 
Suppose  we  consult  sister  Sophia  ? "  she  said 
suddenly  and  with  her  pretty  face  lighting  at  the 
happy  thought.  "  You  know,  doctor,  that  her 
judgment  is  much  sounder,  much  more  practi 
cal,  than  mine.  She  sometimes  has  very  valuable 
ideas  —  when  I  don't  at  all  know  what  to  do." 

Miss  Judy  turned  to  the  young  man  with  a 
soft  little  air  and  a  touch  of  gentle  pride  that 
charmed  him :  "  I  am  speaking,  sir,  of  my 
sister,  Miss  Sophia  Bramwell." 

Thus  delicately  proclaiming  Miss  Sophia  to 
be  a  personage  whom  it  was  an  honor  as  well 
as  an  advantage  to  know,  Miss  Judy  went  in 
doors  to  ask,  with  the  usual  elaborate,  punctil 
ious  ceremony,  if  she  would  be  so  kind  as  to 
take  the  trouble  to  come  out  to  the  front  gate, 
where  the  doctor  was  waiting  to  consult  her  in 
an  important  matter ;  and  where  it  would  give 
herself  the  greatest  pleasure  to  present  old  lady 
Gordon's  grandson  —  who  was  waiting  with 
the  doctor,  —  provided,  of  course,  that  the  in 
troduction  would  be  entirely  agreeable  to  Miss 
Sophia.  There  were  excellent  reasons  why 
Miss  Judy  thus  begged  Miss  Sophia  to  come 
out  instead  of  inviting  the  gentlemen  to  come 
in,  but  neither  of  the  sisters  then  or  ever  spoke 
of  these,  nor  of  any  other  merely  sordid  things. 
It  took  Miss  Judy  some  time,  however,  to  make 
the  request  of  Miss  Sophia  as  politely  as  she 
fondly  considered  her  due  ;  and  although  it  did 

174 


Miss  Judy's  Little  Ways 

not  take  Miss  Sophia  long  to  say  "  Just  so,  sister 
Judy,"  with  all  the  accustomed  promptness  and 
decision,  several  minutes  necessarily  elapsed  be 
fore  she  was  really  ready  to  appear.  There  was 
the  getting  up  from,  and  the  getting  out  of,  her 
low  arm-chair,  always  a  difficult,  tedious  pro 
cess  ;  and  there  was  the  further  time  required  for 
reaching  up  the  chimney  to  get  a  bit  of  soot ; 
and  for  fetching  the  heavy  footstool  clear  across 
the  big  room  to  stand  upon,  in  order  to  see  in 
the  mirror.  Yet  all  this  must  be  done  ere  she 
could  go  out.  The  sun  was  shining  too  brill 
iantly  for  even  Miss  Sophia  to  venture  into  the 
broad  daylight  without  taking  more  than  the 
usual  precaution.  Even  she  could  not  think 
of  going  out  after  having  applied  the  soot  hap 
hazard,  as  she  sometimes  did  in  emergencies. 
But,  fortunately,  time  was  no  consideration  in 
Oldfield;  and  Miss  Sophia  was  at  last  safely 
descended  from  the  footstool  and  fully  prepared 
to  face  the  daylight  and  also  the  strange  young 
gentleman  from  Boston. 

Lynn  could  not  help  staring  a  little,  thus 
taken  unawares ;  unconsciously  he  had  ex 
pected  Miss  Sophia  to  be  like  her  sister.  But 
the  deference  with  which  Miss  Judy  laid  the 
case  before  her  struck  him  as  an  exquisite 
thing,  too  fine  and  sweet  and  altogether  lovely 
to  be  smiled  at,  either  openly  or  secretly.  He 
did  not  know  then  —  as  he  soon  came  to  un 
derstand —  that  Miss  Sophia's  ready  and  firm 
response  was  an  unvaried  formula  which 
vaguely  served  most  of  her  simple  conversa- 


Oldfield 

tional  requirements.  But  he  did  know,  as  soon 
as  he  saw  the  little  old  sisters  together,  how  ten 
derly  they  loved  one  another.  Miss  Judy  looked 
at  him  with  undisguised  pride  in  Miss  Sophia, 
shining  in  her  flax-flower  eyes,  turning  again 
as  pink  as  the  sweetest  of  the  blush  roses,  with 
delight  in  thr  (inn  promptness  with  which  Miss 
Sophia  responded.  There  was  only  the  slightest 
involuntary  movement  of  her  proud  little  head 
toward  her  sister  when  the  gentlemen  were  upon 
the  point  of  leaving;  but  it  nevertheless  re 
minded  the  doctor  to  take  Miss  Sophia's  hand 
before  taking  her  own,  when  he  bent  clown  to 
touch  their  hands  with  his  rough-bearded  lips 
in  old-time  gallantry,  half  in  jest  and  half  in 
earnest,  but  wholly  becoming  to  him  no  less 
than  to  the  two  serious  little  ladies. 

The  gentlemen  were  no  sooner  gone,  leaving 
the  sisters  —  or  Miss  Judy  at  least  —  to  think 
over  what  had  been  said,  than  she  began  forth 
with  to  devise  ways  and  means  of  showing 
her  sympathy  with  her  neighbors,  Anne  and 
Tom,  in  their  terrible  affliction.  Her  first  im 
pulse  was  always  to  give  —  and  she  had  so 
little  to  give,  dear  little  Miss  Judy!  It  now 
happily  occurred  to  her,  however,  that  Tom 
might  like  a  taste  of  early  green  peas.  Anne's 
were  barely  beginning  to  bloom,  as  Miss  Judy 
could  see  by  looking  across  the  big  road,  and 
as  she  told  Miss  Sophia.  No  wonder  Anne  had 
neglected  to  plant  them  till  late,  poor  thing ! 
Who  would  have  remembered  the  garden  in 
the  midst  of  such  awful  trouble  as  hers?  And 

176 


Miss  Judy's  Little  Ways 

then  it  was  still  quite  early  in  the  season, — 
Miss  Judy  had  gathered  the  first  peas  from  her 
own  vines  only  that  morning,  while  the  ten 
der  pale  green  pods  were  still  wet  with  dew,  as 
properly  gathered  vegetables  should  be.  And, 
although  she  had  gone  carefully  over  the  vines, 
cautiously  lifting  each  waxen  green  tendril, 
fragrant  with  white  blossoms,  she  had  found 
but  a  handful  of  pods  which  were  really  well 
filled. 

"  But  they  are  very  sweet  and  delicate,  and 
they  will  not  seem  so  few  if  Merica  puts  them 
on  a  slice  of  toast  and  runs  over  with  them 
while  they  are  piping  hot,  before  they  have 
time  to  shrivel,"  Miss  Judy  said,  smiling  happily 
at  her  sister  as  she  bustled  about,  getting  a  pan 
ready  for  the  shelling  of  the  peas. 

Miss  Sophia's  face  fell.  She  had  been  look 
ing  forward  to  those  peas  ever  since  breakfast. 
And  she  remembered  that  Miss  Judy  had  sent 
Tom  the  earliest  asparagus.  But  she  assented 
as  readily  and  as  cheerfully  as  she  could,  and, 
drawing  her  low  rocking-chair  closer  to  Miss 
Judy's,  resignedly  settled  herself  to  help  with  the 
shelling  of  the  peas.  The  tinkling  they  made 
as  they  fell  in  the  shining  pan  soon  lulled  her, 
for  she  never  could  sit  still  long  and  keep 
awake,  so  that  she  presently  fell  to  nodding  and 
straightening  up  and  nodding  again.  Straight 
ening  up  very  resolutely,  she  began  rocking 
slowly,  trying  in  that  way  to  keep  from  going 
to  sleep. 

"  The  creak  of  that  old  chair  makes  me  sleepy 

N  177 


Oldfield 

too,"  said  Miss  Judy,  smilingly,  yet  looking  a 
little  sad.  "  It  sounds  to-day  just  as  it  did 
when  mother  used  it  to  rock  us  to  sleep  —  just 
the  same  peaceful,  contented,  homely  little 
creak.  There !  "  she  said  as  the  last  plump 
pea  tinkled  on  the  tin.  "  And  I  declare,  sister 
Sophia,  just  look  at  all  these  fine  fat  hulls ! 
Why,  we  can  have  some  nice  rich  soup  made 
out  of  them,  as  well  as  not ! " 

"  Just  so,  sister  Judy,"  Miss  Sophia  responded 
eagerly,  at  once  wide  awake  and  sitting  up 
suddenly,  quite  straight.  "  And  with  plenty  of 
thickening  too." 

"  To  be  sure !  What  a  head  you  have,  sister 
Sophia,"  Miss  Judy  cried,  admiringly.  "  And 
then  we'll  have  something  to  send  old  Mr.  Mills 
as  well  as  Tom.  Just  to  please  Kitty,"  she 
added,  seeing  the  shade  which  came  over  Miss 
Sophia's  face,  and  misunderstanding  its  source. 
"  It  is  ten  to  one  but  he  will  be  in  one  of  his 
tempers  and  throw  the  soup  out  of  the  window, 
as  he  did  that  dinner  of  Kitty's  —  dishes  and 
all.  But  we  can  instruct  Merica  to  hold  on  to 
the  bowl  till  Kitty  herself  takes  it  from  her. 
It  always  pleases  Kitty  so,  for  anybody  to  show 
the  old  man  any  little  attention.  And,  after  all, 
he  is  not  so  much  to  be  blamed,  poor  old  suf 
ferer.  Being  bedfast  with  lumbago  must  be 
mighty  trying  to  the  temper.  And  then  Sam, 
too,  is  threatened  with  a  bad  pain  in  his  back 
every  time  he  tries  to  do  any  work.  It  actually 
appears  to  come  on  if  he  even  thinks  about 
working,  or  if  a  body  so  much  as  mentions  work 

I78 


Miss  Judy's  Little  Ways 

before  him.  Maybe  that's  what  makes  Sam  a 
bit  irritable  with  the  old  man  sometimes.  But 
Kitty  never  is.  All  his  crossness,  all  his  un 
reasonableness,  all  his  fault-finding  —  which  is 
natural  enough,  poor  old  soul — just  rolls  off  her 
good  nature  like  water  off  a  duck's  back.  She 
only  laughs  and  pets  him,  and  goes  on  trying 
harder  then  ever  to  please  him.  Did  you  ever 
see  anybody  like  Kitty,  sister  Sophia  ?  " 

Miss  Judy  had  arisen,  gathering  up  her  apron, 
which  was  filled  with  the  pea-shells;  but  she 
now  paused,  holding  the  pan,  to  await  Miss 
Sophia's  reply  with  the  greatest,  keenest  inter 
est, —  as  she  often  did, — as  though  Miss  Sophia, 
who  had  never  been  separated  from  her  longer 
than  two  hours  at  a  time  in  the  whole  course 
of  their  uneventful  lives,  might  have  known 
some  peculiar  and  interesting  persons,  whom 
she  herself  had  not  been  so  fortunate  as  to 
meet.  This  was  one  of  the  things  which  made 

O 

them  such  delightful  company  for  one  another. 
When,  therefore,  Miss  Sophia  now  said,  "Just 
so,  sister  Judy,"  with  great  promptness  and 
decision,  Miss  Judy  was  newly  impressed  with 
the  extent  and  soundness  of  her  sister's  knowl 
edge  of  human  nature. 

Tripping  briskly  out  of  the  room  carrying  the 
peas  and  the  pea-shells  (to  which  Miss  Sophia 
had  secretly  transferred  her  expectation),  she 
entered  the  kitchen,  full  of  thoughts  of  the 
delicate  cooking  of  the  peas,  and  was  surprised 
to  find  Merica  missing.  Yet  the  day  was 
Monday,  and  the  smoke  from  the  invisible 

179 


Oldfield 

and  mysterious  wash-kettle  floated  up  from  a 
newly  kindled  fire  behind  the  gooseberry  bushes. 
Miss  Judy  did  not  know  what  to  make  of  Mer- 
ica's  absence  at  such  a  time ;  and  she  stepped 
down  from  the  rear  door  of  the  passage  to  the 
grass  of  the  back  yard  and  called.  There  was 
no  answer,  and  Miss  Judy  stood  hesitating  a 
moment  in  puzzled  astonishment,  but  as  she 
turned  there  was  a  sudden  rush  —  sounds  of 
scuffling,  a  smothered  shriek  —  and  the  girl  fell 
over  the  fence,  striking  the  ground  with  limbs 
outstretched,  like  some  clumsy  bird  thrown 
while  trying  to  fly.  The  fence,  which  divided 
Miss  Judy's  garden  from  old  lady  Gordon's 
orchard,  was  a  very  high  one,  but  Miss  Judy 
was  more  shocked  than  alarmed  at  seeing  Mer- 
ica  come  over  it  in  so  indecorous  a  manner. 

"What  does  such  conduct  mean,  Merica?" 
she  said  severely. 

The  girl  had  never  heard  her  gentle  mistress 
speak  so  sharply  —  but  she  herself  was  past  mis 
tress  of  deceit.  She  therefore  gathered  herself 
up  as  slowly  as  possible,  in  order  to  gain  time, 
deliberately  smoothing  down  her  skirt  and  care 
fully  brushing  off  the  dirt.  The  mask  of  a 
dark  skin  has  served  in  many  an  emergency. 
Merica  could  not  entirely  control  the  guilty 
shiftiness  of  her  eyes,  but  she  did  it  in  a  meas 
ure,  and  she  was  quite  ready  with  a  deceitful 
explanation  almost  as  soon  as  she  had  re 
covered  her  breath.  She  knew  from  long  ex 
perience  how  easy  it  was  to  deceive  Miss  Judy, 
the  most  innocent  and  artless  of  mistresses. 

1 80 


Miss  Judy's  Little  Ways 

She  also  knew  —  as  all  servants  know  the 
sources  of  their  daily  bread  —  the  weak  spot 
in  Miss  Judy's  armor  of  innocence  and  artless- 
ness.  Accordingly,  looking  her  mistress  straight 
in  the  face,  Merica  now  said  brazenly  that  she 
had  been  over  to  old  lady  Gordon's  to  get  the 
strange  young  gentleman's  clothes ;  and  Miss 
Judy,  blushing  rosy  red,  dropped  the  subject  in 
the  greatest  haste  and  confusion,  precisely  as 
Merica  expected  her  to  do.  The  little  lady 
was  indeed  so  utterly  routed  that  she  gave  the 
order  for  the  steaming  of  the  peas  very  timidly ; 
and  when  Merica,  seeing  her  advantage,  fol 
lowed  it  up  in  a  most  heartless  manner  by  in 
sisting  upon  boiling  them  instead,  Miss  Judy 
gave  way  without  a  struggle,  and  went  silently 
back  to  the  house  as  meek  as  any  lamb. 

She  did  not  mention  the  matter  to  her  sister; 
the  delicate  subject  was,  in  fact,  rarely  men 
tioned  between  them,  and  it  was,  of  course, 
never  spoken  of  to  any  one  else.  To  be  sure, 
everybody  in  Oldfield  had  seen  Merica  coming 
and  going  with  carefully  covered  baskets,  which, 
nevertheless,  proclaimed  the  laundry  with  every 
withe  —  as  some  baskets  do,  somehow  or  other, 
quite  regardless  of  shape ;  but  the  fetching 
and  the  toting,  as  Merica  phrased  these  trans 
actions,  were  usually  in  the  early  morning 
when  the  neighbors  were  busy  in  the  rear  of 
their  own  houses ;  or  in  the  dusk  of  evening 
when  the  gloaming  cast  its  shadow  of  softening- 
mystery  over  the  most  prosaic  aspects  of  life. 
And  everybody  also  saw  the  smoke  arising 

181 


Oldfield 

every  Monday  morning  from  beneath  the  wash- 
kettle,  hid  in  its  bower  of  gooseberry  bushes; 
but  no  one  in  all  the  village  would  have  been 
unkind  enough  to  ask  or  even  to  wonder, 
whether  all  the  white  bubbles  arising  with  the 
steam  could  be  portions  of  the  two  little  ladies' 
own  meagre  wardrobe.  It  is  true  that  on  one 
occasion,  when  Sidney  was  very,  very  hard 
pressed  for  a  new  story,  —  as  the  most  resource 
ful  of  professional  diners-out  must  be  now  and 
again,  —  she  had  been  overly  tempted  into  the 
spinning  of  a  weird  and  amusing  yarn,  about 
seeing  a  long,  ghostly  pair  of  white  cotton  legs, 
of  unmistakably  masculine  ownership,  flapping 
over  the  gooseberry  bushes  in  a  high  wind  as 
she  went  home  after  dark  on  a  certain  wild  and 
stormy  night.  But  she  could  hardly  sleep  on  the 
following  night,  her  uneasy  conscience  pricked 
her  so  sorely,  and,  setting  out  betimes  the 
next  morning,  she  -made  a  round  over  the 
complete  circuit  of  the  previous  day,  unre 
servedly  taking  back  the  whole  story.  And 
never  again  did  she  yield  to  the  never  ceasing 
temptation  to  make  capital  of  Miss  Judy's  little 
ways,  about  which,  indeed,  many  a  good  story 
might  have  been  excellently  told. 

That  small  gentlewoman  herself,  naturally, 
never  dreamt  of  doing  anything  so  indelicate 
as  to  look  behind  the  gooseberry  bushes  while 
the  clothes  were  in  the  tubs  or  the  kettle  or 
drying  on  the  line.  Sometimes,  when  she 
was  compelled  to  send  Merica  away  on  an 
errand  while  the  wash-kettle  was  boiling,  she 

182 


Miss  Judy's  Little  Ways 

would  take  the  girl's  post  temporarily  and  would 
punch  the  white  bubbles  gingerly  with  the 
clothes-stick  to  keep  them  from  being  burned 
against  the  side  of  the  kettle ;  but  she  always 
blushed  very  much  and  was  heartily  glad  when 
Merica  returned  to  her  duty.  The  simple  truth 
was  that  Miss  Judy  thought  it  right  to  allow 
Merica,  on  her  own  proposal,  to  earn  in  this 
manner  the  wages  which  she  and  her  sister 
were  unable  to  pay,  since  they  could  give  her 
but  a  nominal  sum  out  of  their  little  pension, 
which  was  all  that  they  had.  And  yet,  al 
though  this  was  the  case,  she  saw  no  reason 
for  talking  about  a  disagreeable  thing  which 
she  was  thus  forced  to  put  up  with.  She 
never  spoke  of  anything  unrefined  if  she  could 
help  it.  And  those  who  knew  her  shrinking 
from  all  the  more  sordid  sides  of  household 
affairs,  and  from  all  the  commonplace  and 
unbeautiful  aspects  of  life,  seldom  if  ever  ap 
proached  her  with  anything  of  the  kind. 

Far,  indeed,  then,  would  it  have  been  from 
the  rudest  of  the  Oldfield  people  to  have  hinted 
to  Miss  Judy  of  certain  matters  which  were 
plain  enough  to  every  one  else.  Miss  Pettus 
alone  thought  Miss  Judy  ought  to  be  told  of 
Merica's  scandalous  "  goings-on." 

"  I  saw  her  and  Eunice  yesterday,  in  old  lady 
Gordon's  orchard,  a-fighting  over  Enoch  Cotton 
like  two  black  cats  —  right  under  that  poor 
little  innocent's  nose  —  and  she  never  knowing 
a  blessed  thing  about  it ! "  Miss  Pettus  fumed. 

But  Sidney  put  her  foot  down.  Miss  Judy 
183 


Oldfield 

should  not  be  told:  and  there  was  to  be  "no  if 
or  and  "  about  it,  either.  "  What's  the  use  of  wor 
rying  Miss  Judy  ?  She  could  no  more  under 
stand  than  a  baby  in  long  clothes.  And  what's 
the  odds,  anyway  ?  "  demanded  this  village  phi 
losopher.  "  If  they  ain't  a-fighting  about  Enoch 
Cotton  they'll  be  a-fighting  about  somebody 
else." 

Mrs.  Alexander  sided  with  Sidney.  It  would 
be  a  shame  to  tell  Miss  Judy ;  as  Sidney  said, 
it  would  be  like  going  to  a  little  child  with  such 
a  tale ;  and  the  doctor's  wife  strengthened  the 
impression  made  by  her  own  opinion  by  saying 
that  the  doctor  said  Miss  Judy  must  not  be 
told.  He  simply  would  not  allow  it  —  that  was 
all. 

Kitty  Mills,  too,  opposed  the  telling  of  Miss 
Judy  earnestly  enough,  but  she  could  not  help 
laughing  at  the  recollection  of  a  scene  which 
she  had  witnessed  a  few  days  before ;  and  which 
she  now  went  on  to  describe  to  the  ladies  who 
were  holding  this  conclave. 

"  I  happened  to  be  raising  the  window  of 
Father  Mills's  room,  —  he  likes  it  down  at  night 
no  matter  how  hot  it  is,  and  wants  it  raised  and 
lowered  all  through  the  day,  —  and  I  saw  Merica 
run  out  of  Miss  Judy's  kitchen,  and  jump  the 
back  fence.  She  couldn't  have  more  than 
'lighted  on  the  ground  on  the  other  side,  when 
the  air  was  filled  all  of  a  sudden  with  aprons 
and  head-handkerchiefs — and  smothered  squalls. 
And  bless  your  soul,  there  sat  Miss  Judy  by 
the  front  window,  knowing  not  a  breath  about 

184 


Miss  Judy's  Little  Ways 

what  was  going  on  over  in  the  orchard  —  calm 
and  sweet  as  any  May  morning  and  pretty  as  a 
pink  —  the  dear  little  thing,  —  darning  away  on 
Miss  Sophia's  stocking,  till  you  couldn't  tell  which 
was  stocking  and  which  was  darn  ;  and  talking 
along  in  her  chirrupy  funny  little  way  about  that 
Becky  (whoever  she  is),  for  all  the  world  as  if  she 
were  some  real,  live  woman  living  that  minute, 
right  on  the  other  side  of  the  big  road ;  and 
there  was  poor  Miss  Sophia  a-listening,  pleased 
as  pleased  could  be,  and  mightily  interested  too, 
though  it  was  plain  to  be  seen  that  she  had 
no  more  notion  of  what  Miss  Judy  was  talk 
ing  about  than  the  man  in  the  moon ; "  and 
Kitty  Mills  took  up  her  apron  to  wipe  away 
the  tears  that  had  come  from  laughing  over 
the  picture  thus  conjured  up. 

Old  lady  Gordon  did  not  enter  into  the 
conclave.  She  thought  nothing  about  Miss 
Judy  in  connection  with  the  rivalry  between 
Eunice  and  Merica  for  the  heart  and  hand  of  her 
black  coachman,  Mr.  Enoch  Cotton.  Indeed, 
she  thought  nothing  at  all  about  the  matter. 
In  passing  it  seemed  to  her  quite  in  the  usual 
order  of  colored  events.  It  had  not  up  to  that 
time  touched  her  own  comfort  at  any  point. 
Eunice,  knowing  her  mistress,  was  careful,  even 
in  the  height  of  her  jealous  rages,  even  when 
she  met  Merica  in  the  orchard  by  challenge  to 
combat,  to  guard  the  excellence  and  the  regu 
larity  of  old  lady  Gordon's  meals,  thereby  insur 
ing  against  any  interference  from  her. 

"  Just  give  Miss  Frances  her  way  and  she'll 
185 


Oldfield 

give  you  your  way,  and  that's  more  than  you 
can  say  for  most  folks  ;  lots  of  folks  want  their 
way  and  your  way  too,  but  Miss  Frances 
don't." 

Eunice  had  said  this  to  Enoch,  who  was 
comparatively  a  newcomer,  speaking  in  the 
picturesque  dialect  of  her  race,  which  is  so 
agreeable  to  hear  and  so  disagreeable  to  read. 
Having  determined,  as  a  mature  widow  know 
ing  her  own  mind,  to  take  Enoch  Cotton  unto 
herself  for  better  or  worse,  it  seemed  to  Eunice 
best  to  instruct  him  with  regard  to  the  keeping 
of  his  place  as  the  gardener  and  the  driver  of 
the  antiquated  coach  in  which  old  lady  Gordon, 
who  never  walked,  fared  forth  at  long  and  irreg 
ular  intervals.  This  helpful  instruction  had 
been  given  before  Merica's  entrance  into  the 
field  came  cruelly  to  chill  the  confidence  exist 
ing  between  Eunice  and  Enoch  Cotton.  It  was 
during  this  completely  confidential  time  that 
Eunice  had  also  told  him  that  it  was  entirely 
a  mistake  to  suppose  the  mistress  to  be  as  hard 
to  get  along  with  as  some  people  thought  she 
was.  The  main  thing,  the  only  thing  in  fact, 
was  to  keep  from  crossing  her  comfort. 

"  /'ve  s;ot  nothing;  to  do  but  to  cook  what  she 

o  ?  o 

wants  cooked  in  the  way  she  wants  it  cooked, 
with  her  batter  cakes  brown  on  both  sides  ;  and 
to  be  careful  to  have  the  meals  on  the  table  at 
the  stroke  of  the  clock.  You've  got  nothing  to 
do  but  to  raise  plenty  of  the  vegetables  she  likes, 
and  to  have  the  coach  'round  at  the  front  gate 
to  the  minute  by  the  watch.  We  won't  have 

186 


Miss  Judy's  Little  Ways 

any  trouble  with  Miss  Frances  so  long  as  we 
do  what  she  wants  and  don't  cross  her  comfort. 
If  you  ever  do  cross  it  —  even  one  time  —  then 
look  out!" 

Eunice  had  eloquently  concluded  these  valu 
able  hints,  silently  nodding  her  head,  with  her 
blue-palmed  black  hands  on  her  broad  hips. 
And  Enoch  Cotton  —  alas!  learned  his  lesson 
so  well  that,  although  old  lady  Gordon  became 
gradually  aware  of  his  inconstancy,  she  saw  no 
reason  to  interfere  in  Eunice's  behalf. 

Miss  Judy,  the  only  person  whose  comfort  was 
really  imperilled,  sat  chatting  that  day  with  Miss 
Sophia,  all  unconscious,  till  the  peas  were 
cooked.  She  then  went  out  to  put  them  in  her 
mother's  prettiest  china  bowl  — the  little  blue 
one  with  the  wreath  of  pink  roses  round  it  —  and 
daintily  spread  a  fringed  napkin  over  the  top. 
Maybe  Tom  might  notice  how  pretty  it  looked, 
Miss  Judy  said  to  Miss  Sophia,  though  he  noticed 
sadly  little  of  what  went  on  around  him.  Any 
way,  it  would  be  a  compliment  to  Anne  to  send 
the  peas  in  the  best  bowl.  Miss  Judy  hesitated 
before  putting  the  soup  in  the  next  best  bowl. 
It  would  be  a  serious  matter  indeed  if  the  old 
man  should  seize  it  and  fling  it  out  of  the  win 
dow  before  Kitty  could  stop  him,  as  he  often  did 
with  her  cooking  and  her  dishes.  Still,  it  did 
not  seem  quite  polite  to  Kitty  to  send  it  in  a  tin 
cup,  so  that,  after  Miss  Judy  had  consulted  Miss 
Sophia,  who  assented  very  quickly  and  firmly, 
—  fearing  that  the  rest  of  the  soup  might  get 
cold, —  Merica  was  given  the  second  best  bowl 

187 


Oldfield 

a/so,  but  charged  not  to  let  go  her  hold  on  it 
until  Kitty  herself  took  it  out  of  her  hand. 

"  Give  it  to  old  Mr.  Mills  with  sister  Sophia's 
compliments,"  Miss  Judy  said,  with  unconscious 
irony. 

Miss  Sophia  ate  her  portion  of  the  soup  with 
much  satisfaction,  while  Miss  Judy  watched  her 
with  beaming  eyes,  turning  at  length  to  follow 
Merica's  progress  with  a  radiant  gaze.  It  al 
ways  made  her  happy  to  do  anything  for  any 
one ;  and  she  never  felt  that  she  had  very  little 
to  do  with.  As  Merica  came  out  of  the  Watsons' 
gate  and  started  up  the  big  road  with  the  bowl 
of  soup,  Miss  Judy,  in  her  satisfaction,  could 
not  help  calling  the  girl  back  to  ask  whether 
Tom  Watson  appeared  to  notice  the  wreath  of 
roses.  It  was  a  bit  disappointing  to  have 
Merica  say  that  she  hardly  thought  he  had. 
Then  Miss  Judy,  sighing  a  little,  gave  the 
servant  further  directions,  telling  her  to  go  on 
from  the  Mills'  house  up  to  Miss  Pettus's  to 
ask  for  the  loan  of  the  chicken-snake  which 
Mr.  Pettus  had  killed  that  morning.  Miss 
Judy  was  afraid  that  Miss  Pettus  would  for 
get  to  hang  it  before  sundown  (white  side  up) 
on  the  fence  to  fetch  rain,  which  was  really 
beginning  to  be  needed  very  much  by  the 
gardens.  If  Miss  Pettus  neglected  'it  till  the 
sun  went  down,  there  would  of  course  be  no 
use  in  hanging  it  on  the  fence  at  all,  so  that,  to 
make  sure,  it  was  better  for  Merica  to  borrow 
it  and  fetch  it  home  when  she  came.  Merica 
sullenly  demurred  that  the  snake  would  not 

1 88 


Miss  Judy's  Little  Ways 

stay  on  the  stick,  and  that  it  would  crawl  off 
as  fast  as  it  was  put  on ;  adding  rather  inso 
lently  that  she  could  not  be  all  day  putting  a 
garter-snake  on  a  stick  and  having  it  crawl  off 
every  step  of  the  way  down  the  big  road  —  with 
a  fire  under  the  wash-kettle.  But  Miss  Judy 
gently  assured  her  that  the  garter-snake  —  or 
any  other  kind  of  a  serpent  —  would  stay  on  a 
stick  if  it  were  put  on  tail  first.  It  stuck  like 
wax  then,  Miss  Judy  said,  and  could  not  crawl 
off,  no  matter  how  hard  it  might  try. 

"  And  when  you've  got  the  garter-snake  tail- 
first  over  the  stick,  you  might  stop  and  remind 
Miss  Doris  not  to  be  late  in  coming  by  for  me 
to  go  with  her  to-morrow  morning  to  take  her 
dancing  lesson.  No,  wait  a  moment;  you 
had  best  ask  her  if  she  will  be  so  very  kind  as 
to  come  to  see  me  this  evening,  so  that  we  may 
practise  some  songs  —  particularly  '  Come,  rest 
in  this  bosom,  my  own  stricken  deer'  —  and 
then  we  can  talk  over  the  dancing  lesson,"  said 
Miss  Judy. 

There  were  not  many  days  during  the  whole 
year,  and  there  had  hardly  been  a  whole  day  for 
many  a  year,  on  which  Miss  Judy  and  Doris 
could  not  find  some  good  and  urgent  reason 
for  seeing  one  another. 


189 


XIII 

THE    DANCING   LESSON 

Miss  JUDY'S  ideas  of  chaperonage  were  very 
strict.  It  would  have  seemed  to  her  most 
improper  to  allow  Doris  to  take  the  dancing 
lesson  alone.  Not  that  she  thought  any  harm 
of  the  dancing-master;  Miss  Judy  thought  no 
harm  of  any  one.  Her  ideals  were  always  quite 
apart  from  all  considerations  of  reality.  It 
made  no  difference  to  her  that  only  the  neigh 
bors  were  usually  to  be  met  on  the  way,  and 
that  on  the  morning  of  the  first  lesson  the  big 
road  lay  wholly  deserted  when  she  passed  out 
of  her  little  gate  with  Doris  by  her  side  —  she 
herself  so  small,  so  timid,  so  frail,  and  Doris  so 
tall,  so  valiant,  so  strong.  Yet  the  sense  of 
guardianship,  full  of  deep  pride  and  grave 
delight,  filled  her  gentle  heart  even  as  it  must 
have  filled  the  Lion's  when  he  went  guarding 
Una. 

It  was  a  pity  that  Lynn  Gordon  missed  the 
pretty  sight.  He  had  passed  Miss  Judy's  gate 
before  she  came  forth  with  her  charge,  and  now, 
all  unconscious  of  his  loss,  strolled  idly  on  in 
the  opposite  direction.  Dbris  was  in  his  mind 
as  he  went  by  the  silver  poplars,  but  he  caught 
no  glimpse  of  her  through  the  thick  foliage,  and 

190 


The  Dancing  Lesson 

could  barely  see  the  snowy  walls  of  the  house. 
Slowly  he  walked  on  as  far  as  the  brow  of  the 
hill  at  the  southern  end  of  the  village,  as  he  had 
done  once  before,  and  stood  for  a  moment  again 
looking  out  over  the  land.  Then,  turning,  he 
retraced  his  aimless  steps. 

The  day  was  like  a  flawless  diamond,  melt 
ing  into  the  rarest  pearl  where  the  haze  of  the 
horizon  purpled  the  far-off  hills.  The  sapphire 
dome  of  the  heavens  arched  without  a  cloud. 
Below  stretched  the  meadows,  lying  deep  and 
sweet  in  new-cut  grass  and  alive  and  vivid  and 
musical  with  the  movement,  the  color,  and  the 
song  of  the  birds.  He  did  not  know  the  names 
of  half  of  them ;  but  there  were  vireos,  and 
orioles,  and  thrushes,  and  bobolinks,  and  song- 
sparrows,  and  jay-birds,  and  robins  —  all  wear 
ing  their  gayest  plumage  and  singing  their 
blithest  songs.  Even  the  flickers  wore  their 
reddest  collars  and  sang  their  sweetest  notes,  as 
if  vying  with  the  redwings  which  flashed  their 
little  black  bodies  hither  and  thither  as  flame 
bears  smoke.  The  scarlet  tanagers  also  blos 
somed  like  gorgeous  flowers  all  over  the  wide 
green  fields.  And  the  bluebirds  —  blue  —  blue 
—  blue  —  gloriously  singing,  seemed  to  be 
bringing  the  hue  and  the  harmony  of  the 
radiant  heavens  down  to  the  glowing  earth. 

The  melodious  chorus  was  pierced  now  and 
then  by  a  note  of  infinitely  sad  sweetness,  as 
a  bird  lamented  the  wreck  of  its  hopes  which 
had  followed  the  cutting  of  the  grass.  But  the 
mourner  was  far  afield,  so  that  its  sweet  lament 

191 


was  but  a  soft  and  distant  echo  of  the  world- 
pain  which  forever  follows  the  passing  of  the 
Reaper.  The  young  man  heeded  it  as  little  as 
we  all  heed  it,  till  our  own  pass  under  the 
scythe.  He  stopped  to  lean  on  the  fence,  drink 
ing  in  the  beauty  and  fragrance,  thus  unwit 
tingly  disturbing  the  peace  and  happiness  of  a 
robin  family  which  was  dwelling  in  a  near-by 
blackberry  bush.  The  head  of  this  flowering 
house  now  flew  out,  protesting  with  every  in 
dignant  feather  against  this  unmannerly  intru 
sion  of  a  mere  mortal  upon  a  lady-bird's  bower. 
Trailing  his  wings  and  ruffling  his  crest,  he 
sidled  away  along  the  top  of  the  fence  as  if 
there  were  nothing  interesting  among  those 
blossoms  for  anybody  to  spy  out  —  in  a  word, 
doing  everything  a  true  gentleman  should  do 
under  such  circumstances,  no  matter  how  red 
his  waistcoat  may  be.  Another  robin  sang 
what  he  thought  of  the  situation,  expressing 
himself  so  plainly  from  the  other  side  of  the 
big  road,  that  even  the  young  man  understood ; 
while  still  another  robin,  too  far  away  to  know 
what  shocking  things  were  going  on,  poured 
out  a  rapturous  song  as  though  all  living  were 
but  revelling  in  sunshine. 

Lynn  Gordon  turned  away,  thinking  with  a 
smile  what  a  wonderful  thing  love  must  be,  since 
it  could  so  move  the  gentlest  to  fierceness,  as 
he  had  just  seen ;  and  could  bring  the  fiercest 
to  gentleness,  as  he  had  often  heard.  Smil 
ing  at  his  own  idle  thoughts,  he  wandered  on. 
The  loosened  petals  of  the  blackberry  bloom 

192 


The  Dancing  Lesson 

drifted  before  him  like  snowflakes  wafted  by 
the  south  wind.  The  rich  deep  clover  field  on 
the  other  side  of  the  way  was  rosy  and  fragrant 
with  blossoms.  The  wild  grape,  too,  was  in 
flower,  its  elusive  aromatic  scent  flying  down 
from  the  wooded  hillsides,  as  though  it  were 
the  winged,  woodland  spirit  of  fragrance. 

Approaching  the  woods  at  the  foot  of  the 
hills,  Lynn  saw  a  log  cabin,  which  he  had  not 
seen  before,  although  he  knew  that  the  land 
upon  which  it  stood  was  a  part  of  the  Gordon 
estate ;  part  of  the  lands  which  would  one  day 
be  his  own.  As  his  careless  glance  rested  on 
the  cabin,  strains  of  music  coming  from  it 
caught  and  fixed  his  attention.  Some  one  was 
playing  an  old-fashioned  dance  tune  on  a  violin, 
and  Lynn  unthinkingly  followed  the  stately 
measure  till  he  found  himself  standing  unob 
served  before  the  humble  dwelling  from  which 
it  came,  free  to  gaze  his  fill  at  a  scene  revealed 
by  the  open  passage  between  the  two  low  rooms. 

The  passage  walls  were  spotless  with  white 
wash,  and  the  shadows  of  the  trees  standing  close 
behind  showed  deeply  green  beyond.  Against 
these  soft  green  shadows  and  on  one  side  of  the 
passage  stood  the  white-haired  Frenchman.  His 
fiddle  was  under  his  chin,  held  tenderly  as  though 
it  were  a  precious  thing  that  he  dearly  loved. 
His  head  was  a  little  on  one  side  and  his  eyes 
were  partially  closed,  —  like  the  birds,  —  as  if 
he  too  were  under  the  spell  of  his  own  music. 
His  right  arm,  jauntily  raised,  wielded  the  bow: 
his  left  toe  was  advanced,  then  his  right,  now 
o  193 


Oldfield 

this  one,  now  that   one  —  advancing,  bowing, 
retiring  —  all  as  solemn  as  solemn  could  be. 

And  more  serious  if  possible  than  Monsieur 
Beauchamp  was  Doris  herself,  facing  him  from 
the  opposite  side  of  the  passage ;  grave,  indeed, 
as  any  wood  nymph  performing  some  sacred 
rite  in  a  sylvan  temple.  When  the  young  man 
saw  her  first,  she  stood  poised  and  fluttering,  as 
a  butterfly  poises  and  flutters  uncertain  whether 
to  alight  or  to  fly.  The  thin  skirt  of  the  book- 
muslin  party  coat,  delicately  held  out  at  the 
sides  by  the  very  tips  of  her  fingers,  and  lightly 
caught  by  the  soft  wind,  spread  like  the  wings 
of  a  white  bird.  The  slippers,  heel-less  and 
yellow  as  buttercups,  were  thus  brought  be- 
witchingly  into  view  —  with  the  narrow  ribbon 
daintily  crossed  over  the  instep  and  tied  around 
the  ankle  —  as  they  darted  in  and  out  beneath 
the  fluttering  skirt.  Her  golden  hair,  loosed 
by  the  dance  and  the  breeze,  fell  around  her 
shoulders  in  a  radiant  mantle,  growing  more 
beautiful  with  every  airy  movement.  The  ex 
quisite  curve  of  her  cheek,  nearly  always  color 
less,  now  faintly  reflected  the  rose-red  of  her 
perfect  lips  as  the  snowdrift  reflects  the  glow 
of  the  sunset.  Her  large  dark  eyes  were  lost 
under  her  long  dark  lashes,  and  never  wandered 
for  an  instant  from  the  little  Frenchman's  guid 
ing  toes.  And  Doris  understood  those  toes 
perfectly,  although  she  knew  not  a  word  of 
the  dancing-master's  native  language,  and  not 
much  of  her  own  when  spoken  by  him,  as  he 
now  mingled  the  two,  quite  carried  away  by 

194 


The  Dancing  Lesson 

this  sudden  and  late  return  to  his  true  vocation. 
She  followed  their  every  motion  as  thistledown 
follows  the  wind :  stepping  delicately,  advanc 
ing  coquettishly,  courtesying  quaintly  —  as  Miss 
Judy  had  taught  her,  —  and  retiring,  alluring, 
only  to  begin  over  and  over  again.  It  was  all 
as  artless,  as  graceful,  and  as  natural  as  the 
floating  of  the  thistledown  ;  and  such  a  wonder 
ful  dance  as  never  was  seen  on  land  or  sea,  un 
less  —  as  the  young  man  thought,  with  the  sight 
going  to  his  head  like  royal  burgundy  —  the 
fairies  might  have  danced  something  of  the 
kind  on  Erin's  enchanted  moss  within  the  moon 
lit  ring. 

On  riddled  the  old  Frenchman  and  on  winged 
the  young  girl,  both  of  them  far  too  deeply 
absorbed  in  the  serious  business  in  hand  to 
notice  the  onlooker,  till  Miss  Judy  came,  actu 
ally  running  and  almost  out  of  breath.  She 
had  seen  the  young  man's  approach  to  the 
cabin,  but  she  was  too  far  away  to  reach  it 
before  him,  although  she  had  come  as  quickly 
as  she  possibly  could.  Hastening,  she  sharply 
reproached  herself  for  having  been  „  persuaded 
to  go  so  far  from  the  cabin  to  look  at  Mrs. 
Beauchamp's  strawberry  bed.  It  was,  of  course, 
utterly  impossible  to  have  foreseen  this  young 
gentleman's  appearance.  Nevertheless,  she 
should  not  have  left  Doris,  poor  child,  alone 
for  a  moment  —  none  knew  that  better  than 
herself.  And  now  to  see  what  had  come  of  her 
unpardonable  thoughtlessness !  What  would 
this  stranger  think  of  Doris,  or  of  any  well 


Oldfield 

brought  up  girl,  whom  he  thus  found  neglected1 
At  this  thought  Miss  Judy,  for  all  her  mildness, 
ruffled  with  indignation  as  a  hen  ruffles  at  any 
rough  touch  upon  her  soft  little  chicks.  She 
would  try,  she  said  to  herself,  to  retrieve  her 
mistake.  She  would  do  her  best  to  show  this 
grandson  of  old  lady  Gordon  —  who  made  fun 
of  everybody  —  that  her  Doris  was  no  ignorant 
rustic,  roaming  the  woods  all  forgotten  by  her 
proper  guardians.  As  she  ran,  much  agitated 
and  even  alarmed,  the  little  lady  mechanically 
looked  over  her  shoulder  and  put  her  little  hands 
behind  her  back  to  make  sure  that  the  point  of 
her  neckerchief  was  precisely  where  it  should 
be.  She  never  felt  quite  equal  to  a  difficult 
undertaking  until  she  was  certain  of  the  point's 
exact  location,  and  now,  having  learned  by  long 
practice  to  tell  with  some  degree  of  certainty 
by  touch,  —  on  account  of  its  being  so  hard  to 
look  in  the  long  mirror,  —  she  now  thought 
that  it  was  in  its  proper  place,  and  she  accord 
ingly  entered  the  green-shadowed  end  of  the 
passage  with  a  very  high  air.  Her  manner 
was  indeed  as  high  and  even  haughty  a  man 
ner  as  could  possibly  be  assumed  by  a  very 
small,  very  gentle  old  lady,  who  was  blushing, 
and  trying  to  get  her  breath  after  a  rush  across 
a  ploughed  field.  The  greeting  which  she  gave 
Lynn  Gordon  was  therefore  noticeably  cold ; 
also  the  introduction  to  Doris  was  plainly 
wrung  from  her  by  politeness,  and  given  with 
marked  reluctance.  So  that  the  young  man, 
not  understanding  in  the  least,  naturally  won- 

196 


The  Dancing  Lesson 

dered  greatly  at  the  change  in  the  little  lady, 
who  had  been  so  winningly  gracious  on  the 
previous  day. 

Monsieur  Beauchamp's  eager  hospitality  did 
something  to  make  Lynn  feel  less  like  an 
unpardonable  intruder.  And  madame,  also, 
was  kind  in  her  matter-of-fact  way.  She  took 
no  notice  whatever  of  her  husband's  introducing 
her  as  the  Empress  Maria.  Acting  as  though 
she  had  been  deaf  she  placed  chairs  for  her 
guests,  and  then  went  out  to  fetch  them  some 
new  crab  cider  in  thick  glass  tumblers  on  a 
large  deep  plate.  An  inflexible  custom  of  Old- 
field  required  that  a  guest  should  be  offered 
some  kind  of  refreshment,  no  matter  what  the 
time  of  day.  Fortunately,  there  was  no  rigid 
rule  as  to  the  kind  of  refreshment ;  one  kind 
would  do  as  well  as  another,  provided  only  that 
something  was  offered  promptly.  Each  Oldfield 
housekeeper  had  her  own  preference,  her  own 
specialty.  Miss  Pettus  might  with  perfect  pro 
priety  offer  a  piece  of  fried  chicken  at  three 
o'clock  in  the  afternoon  to  a  guest  who  had 
dined  at  one;  old  lady  Gordon  might  order  a  full 
meal  at  any  hour  for  any  one  who  dropped  in 
between  meals,  to  her  own  and  everybody  else's 
entire  satisfaction ;  Miss  Judy  might  serve  a 
handful  of  gooseberries,  either  green  or  ripe, 
on  her  mother's  prettiest  plate,  and  the  guest 
always  remarked  how  pretty  it  was,  whether  she 
dared  eat  it  or  not.  Mrs.  Beauchamp  accord 
ingly  felt  herself  to  be  uncommonly  lucky  in 
having  this  newly  made,  still  sweet,  crab  cider  to 

197 


Oldfield 

offer  her  visitors.  She  had  seen  the  time  when 
she  had  been  obliged  to  hand  a  glass  of  toddy,  and 
that,  too,  without  a  sprig  of  mint  or  a  bit  of  ice. 
It  was  quite  as  much  a  part  of  Oldfield 
manners  to  accept  the  refreshment  as  to  offer 
it.  Miss  Judy  took  her  glass  of  cider  and 
sipped  it  daintily,  saying  how  nice  it  was,  yet 
managing  while  doing  this  to  make  it  quite 
plain  that  the  intruder  was  meant  to  feel  that  he 
had  no  share  in  the  sweet  graciousness  extended 
to  her  hostess.  The  eyes  of  the  two  young 
people  met  involuntarily,  and  although  Doris, 
coloring,  dropped  her  eyes  in  confusion,  Lynn 
saw  the  sudden  dimpling  of  her  cheek.  It  was 
the  second  time  they  had  looked  at  each  other; 
Doris  had  given  him  one  startled,  fleeting 
glance,  with  a  frightened  exclamation  and  a 
hurried  dropping  of  skirts,  when  she  had  first 
seen  him  standing  in  front  of  the  passage,  look 
ing  at  her  as  she  danced.  He  now  found  no 
opportunity  to  speak  to  her.  Miss  Judy  arose 
to  take  Doris  away  as  soon  as  courtesy  would 
allow  her  to  do  so  without  seeming  to  slight 
Mrs.  Beauchamp's  cider.  She  was  ever  more 
careful  of  the  feelings  of  her  inferiors  than 
of  her  equals,  if  that  were  possible.  She  was 
quite  determined,  nevertheless,  to  withdraw  at 
once.  The  lesson  might  be  resumed  another 
day,  she  said  to  Monsieur  Beauchamp,  gently 
but  firmly,  adding  that  Miss  Wendall's  mother 
and  uncle  were  doubtless  expecting  her.  And 
this  Miss  Judy  said  loftily,  almost  haughtily,  in 
a  tone  calculated  to  inform  the  young  gentle- 

198 


The  Dancing  Lesson 

man  that  Miss  Wendall's  mother  and  uncle 
were  personages  to  be  reckoned  with.  As  Miss 
Judy  left  her  seat,  Doris  also  arose  and  started 
to  get  her  hat,  which  was  hanging  against  the 
wall.  Lynn  Gordon  eagerly  sprang  up  and  took 
it  down  and  handed  it  to  her.  He  had  no 
thought,  however,  of  accepting  his  dismissal, 
when  Miss  Judy,  after  taking  leave  of  the 
dancing-master  and  his  wife  with  a  grand  little 
air  which  puzzled  the  worthy  pair  exceedingly, 
merely  inclined  her  head  stiffly  in  his  direction. 
Instead,  he  coolly  went  before  her  and  Doris  to 
the  gate,  and,  after  holding  it  open  till  they  had 
passed  out,  calmly  followed  them,  carefully  tak 
ing  his  place  by  Miss  Judy's  side,  and  away  from 
Doris. 

For  a  few  paces  Miss  Judy  was  silent  with 
surprise,  rigid  with  displeasure.  She  went,  car 
rying  her  little  head  very  high  indeed,  and 
taking  dainty,  mincing  steps.  She  held  up  the 
front  of  her  black  bombazine  by  a  delicately 
small  pinch  of  the  cloth  between  her  fore 
finger  and  thumb,  and  her  little  finger  was  very 
elegantly  crooked.  Her  sweet  face  was  set  as 
a  flint.  She  was  stern  in  the  determination  to 
set  Doris  right  in  the  estimation  of  old  lady 
Gordon's  grandson  —  this  handsome,  mannerly, 
young  gentleman,  who  might  nevertheless  have 
his  grandmother's  disposition  as  well  as  her 
features,  for  all  Miss  Judy  knew.  Yet  her  stiff 
ness  began  to  thaw  under  Lynn's  genial  frank 
ness  as  a  light  frost  melts  under  a  warm  sun. 
He  was  tactful  considering  his  age,  his  inexpe- 

199 


Oldfield 

rience,  and  especially  his  sex  —  if  tact  be  ever  a 
matter  of  age  and  experience,  as  it  is  almost 
always  one  of  sex.  He  had,  too,  a  gay,  boyish 
way  about  him  which  was  very  winning,  and 
which  gradually  disarmed  gentle  Miss  Judy 
almost  completely  within  the  length  of  a  couple 
of  rods.  Within  three  rods  she  began  to  talk 
quite  naturally,  the  only  lingering  sign  of  her 
mildly  fixed  purpose  being  the  unusually  didac 
tic  turn  of  her  remarks. 

"  You  know,  I  presume,  Mr.  Gordon,"  she 
said  primly  and  with  significant  distinctness,  as 
one  who  weighs  her  words,  "  that  this  is  the 
oldest  portion  of  Kentucky.  There  is,  as  I  am 
well  aware,  a  widespread  but  erroneous  impres 
sion  that  the  Blue  Grass  Region  is  older  than 
this ;  but  no  well-read  person  could  possibly 
fall  into  such  an  unaccountable  error.  The  real 
Kentucky  pioneer  was  Thomas  Walker,  who 
came  from  Virginia  through  Cumberland  Gap 
into  the  south-eastern  part  of  the  state  in  1750, 
and  made  explorations  coming  this  way ;  —  not 
Daniel  Boone,  who  first  entered  the  northern 
and  middle  part  of  it  as  late  as  1769.  The 
Blue  Grass  people  are  not  to  blame,  perhaps,  for 
honestly  believing  their  section  to  be  the  oldest 
in  Kentucky,  since  most  of  them  have  been 
brought  up  to  believe  it;  but  it  is  really  surpris 
ing  that,  with  a  good  many  reading  citizens  who 
know  something  of  history,  they  should  cling 
to  this  extraordinary  misbelief  in  opposition  to 
all  written  and  unwritten  history  of  the  state. 
The  first  house,  too,  was  built  here  in  the  Penny- 

200 


The  Dancing  Lesson 

royal  Region,  near  Green  River.  Why,  my  dear 
sir,  I  can  give  you  personal  assurance  that  the 
ruins  of  this  first  house  in  Kentucky  are  still  to 
be  seen.  I  have  never  seen  them  myself,"  added 
Miss  Judy,  scrupulously;  "but  many  friends 
of  mine  have  seen  them." 

When  the  young  man  had  shown  himself  to 
be  as  much  surprised  and  impressed  as  she 
thought  he  should  be,  Miss  Judy  went  on  with 
growing  confidence.  She  called  his  further 
attention  to  the  fact  that  this  Green  River 
country  was  also  the  sole  region  of  Virginia's 
military  grants  to  her  officers  of  the  Revolution. 
Miss  Judy  cautiously  disclaimed  any  knowledge 
of  what  the  mother  state  might  have  done  for 
the  soldiers  of  the  line  —  with  a  soft  touch  of 
condescension.  But  she  spoke  with  authority 
in  saying  that  Virginia  had  never  granted  a 
foot  of  land  —  north  of  Green  River  —  to  any 
officer  of  the  War  of  Independence. 

"  I  am  not  speaking  of  lands  that  may  have 
been  bought  by  officers  from  the  Indians,  or  of 
lands  that  may  have  been  taken  up  by  officers 
as  by  other  settlers.  Lands  so  acquired  are 
doubtless  scattered  all  over  the  state.  I  am 
speaking  only  of  grants  of  lands  in  Kentucky, 
given  by  Virginia  to  her  officers  of  the  Revo 
lution  for  military  services.  These  —  one  and  all 
—  were  given  here,  in  this  Pennyroyal  Region, 
and  nowhere  else ;  it  was  here,  therefore,  that 
those  distinguished  soldiers  came  to  live  and  to 
die,  after  doing  their  duty  to  their  country. 
And  it  was  their  coming  that  made  this  Penny- 


Oldfield 

royal  Region  so  utterly  unlike  the  rest  of  Ken 
tucky." 

"Indeed!  Yes,  I  see,"  responded  Lynn 
Gordon,  with  his  eyes  on  Doris's  dimpling 
cheek. 

And  then  Miss  Judy's  soft  heart  suddenly 
smote  her  with  the  feeling  that  she  had  per 
haps  been  too  severe.  She  had  unconsciously 
been  stepping  more  and  more  mincingly,  hold 
ing  the  pinch  of  black  bombazine  higher  and 
higher,  and  crooking  her  little  finger  more  and 
more  jauntily. 

"  I  have  been  told  that  there  are  some  per 
fectly  sincere  persons  living  in  the  Blue  Grass 
Region  who  honestly  believe  that  their  estates 
were  granted  to  an  officer  ancestor  for  service 
in  the  Revolution.  And  these  deluded  persons 
are  not  so  much  to  be  blamed  as  to  be  pitied 
for  being  brought  up  to  believe  something  that 
is  not  true.  It  is  their  misfortune,  not  their 
fault,  poor  things  !  " 

Sure  now  that  she  was  growing  harsh  indeed 
and  almost  cruel,  Miss  Judy  gracefully  turned 
the  talk  in  a  less  serious  direction,  toward  one 
which  was,  nevertheless,  still  calculated  to  im 
press  this  stranger  with  the  character  of  the 
country. 

"  Of  course  you  know  the  heraldic  herb  of 
the  Pennyroyal  Region,"  she  said  smilingly,  as 
she  pointed  to  an  humble,  unpretentious  bunch 
of  rather  rusty  green,  growing  thick  all  along 
the  wayside.  "  We  who  live  in  it  are  fond  of  it 
and  proud  of  it  too,  as  fond  and  proud  of  it  as 


The  Dancing  Lesson 

England  ever  was  of  the  rose,  or  France  of  the 
lily,  or  Scotland  of  the  thistle,  or  even  Ireland 
of  the  shamrock." 

"  How  interesting, "  said  the  young  man,  still 
looking  at  Doris  —  not  at  the  pennyroyal. 

Doris  glanced  also  at  him,  feeling  great  pride 
in  Miss  Judy's  easy  acquaintance  with  heraldic 
matters,  and  wishing  to  see  if  he  were  as  much 
impressed  as  she  thought  he  ought  to  be. 

"  Yes,  I  think  it  is  interesting,"  continued 
Miss  Judy,  making  her  small  mouth  smaller 
by  pursing  it  up  in  the  dainty  way  that  she 
would  have  ascribed  as  primping.  "  In  fact, 
the  pennyroyal  has  long  been  of  far  greater 
importance  to  the  world  at  large  than  might 
be  supposed  by  those  who  have  not  looked 
into  the  subject.  You  know,  I  presume,  that 
many  of  the  old  English  poets  have  men 
tioned  it  in  their  most  famous  works,  and 
always  with  the  greatest  respect." 

"  Indeed,"  exclaimed  the  young  man  again, 
with  his  gaze  fixed  upon  the  sweet  curve  of 
Doris's  velvet  cheek. 

"  Chaucer  and  Dryden  and  Drayton  and 
Spenser  —  every  one  of  these  fathers  of  Eng 
lish  poesy  has  something  to  say  of  the  penny 
royal,"  Miss  Judy  went  on  airily,  still  quite 
firmly  resolved  to  let  old  lady  Gordon's  grand 
son  see  —  no  matter  how  polite  he  might  be 
—  that  Doris's  friends  were  well-read  and  cul 
tured  persons,  however  much  to  the  contrary 
his  first  impression  may  have  been.  "Their  men 
tions  of  it  are  mostly  very  mysterious,  though ; 

203 


Oldfield 

they  speak  of  it  as  'a  charming,  enchanting, 
bewitching  herb.'  All  of  them,  indeed,  de 
scribe  it  in  that  manner,  if  I  remember  cor 
rectly —  though  one  does  forget  so  easily,"  the 
little  lady  added,  as  if  she  read  Chaucer  and 
Dryden  and  Drayton  and  Spenser  every  day 
of  her  life.  "  I  am  quite  sure,  however,  that 
Drayton  refers  to  it  '  in  sorceries  excelling.' 
And  I  also  seem  distinctly  to  recall  the 
witches  of  The  Faerie  Queene  as  cleansing 
themselves  of  evil  magic  by  a  bath  of  penny-> 
-  royal  once  a  year  —  I  don't,  though,  recollect 
what  they  bathed  in  during  the  rest  of  the 
time.  Spenser  calls  it  out  of  its  true  name, 
however,  as  I  remember  his  reference  to  it.  He 
says  that  the  witches  bathed  in  '  origane  and 
thyme ' ;  but  everybody  knows  well  enough 
that  origane  was  the  pennyroyal's  name  in 
Spenser's  day.  Chaucer  and  Drayton  knew 
it  in  their  time  as  '  lunarie,'  but  they  all  meant 
neither  more  nor  less  than  our  own  penny 
royal  and  nothing  else." 

As  the  three  walked  slowly  up  the  big  road 
under  the  flowering  locusts,  Miss  Judy,  relent 
ing  more  and  more,  gradually  became  quite  her 
sweet,  friendly  self.  She  finally  admitted,  with 
the  gentle  frankness  natural  to  her,  that  she  had 
never  quite  been  able  to  understand  these  mys 
terious  poetic  references  to  such  a  simple  homely 
thing  as  the  pennyroyal,  which  she  had  known 
ever  since  she  could  remember.  She  now  freely 
acknowledged  that  its  character  must  have 
altered  with  the  passing  of  the  ages,  or  must 

204 


The  Dancing  Lesson 

have  been  changed  by  the  coming  from  the 
old  world  to  the  new.  And  yet,  on  the  other 
hand,  —  as  she  pointed  out  to  the  young  man 
in  a  tone  of  confidence, — there  were  the  famous 
old  simplists,  belonging  to  the  very  time  and 
the  very  country  of  these  fathers  of  poetry,  who 
had  known  and  prized  an  herb  which  was  much 
like  the  pennyroyal  of  to-day,  and  which  they 
had  called  "  honesty.";^ 

"  This  certainly  must  have  been  identical 
with  our  own  heraldic  pennyroyal,"  Miss  Judy 
declared.  "  For  that  surely  is  the  honestest 
little  thing  growing  out  of  the  earth.  So  up 
right,  so  downright.  So  absolutely  uncompro 
mising  !  Sturdy,  erect,  wholesome,  useful,  clean, 
bristly,  and  square  of  stem,  it  holds  its  rough 
leaves  steady  and  level  at  the  full  height 
of  its  reach ;  standing  thus,  it  never  bends ; 
falling,  it  always  goes  the  whole  way  down ; 
pulled  up,  its  roots  come  all  at  once.  So 
that  there  is  no  half-heartedness  of  any  sort 
in  this  most  characteristic  product  of  south 
western  Kentucky." 

There  was  a  shade  of  uneasiness  in  the 
proud  glance  which  Doris  now  stole  at  Lynn, 
with  a  sudden  uplifting  of  her  lovely  dark  eyes. 
He  could  but  admire  Miss  Judy's  learning,  she 
thought,  and  yet  she  could  not  help  seeing,  with 
a  tender  sense  of  humor,  how  exquisitely  quaint 
the  little  lady's  manner  was. 

Lynn  grew  bold,  reading  the  look  and  the 
unconscious,  embarrassed,  half  smile.  "  But, 
Miss  Bramwell,  pray  tell  me,  does  not  the  penny- 

205 


Oldfield 

royal  belong  to  the  whole  state  ?  I  have  always 
taken  it  to  be  a  member  of  the  mint  family." 

Miss  Judy,  stepping  still  more  mincingly,  and 
holding  the  pinch  of  black  bombazine  higher 
than  ever,  tossed  her  little  head  as  she  ac 
knowledged  the  possibility  of  a  distant  rela 
tionship.  She  intimated  that  she  considered  this 
too  far  off  to  count,  even  in  Kentucky,  where 
kinship  appeared  to  stretch  farther  than  any 
where  else  in  the  world.  And  she  forthwith 
repudiated  for  the  sturdy  pennyroyal  all  the 
traits  and  the  habits  of  the  whole  disreputable 
mint  tribe  —  root  and  branch. 

"  Never  under  any  circumstances  will  the 
honest  pennyroyal  be  found  lolling  supinely 
in  the  low,  shady,  wet  haunts  of  the  mint 
The  true  pennyroyal  —  you  should  know,  my 
dear  sir  —  stands  high  and  dry,  straight  out 
in  the  open.  And  it  stands  on  its  native 
heath,  too,"  Miss  Judy  said,  smiling  herself 
now,  and  quite  forgetting  all  discomfiture  and 
all  displeasure.  "  The  pennyroyal  never  had  to 
be  fetched  from  somewhere  else  —  as  the  blue 
grass  was  —  to  give  its  name  to  its  region  !  " 

They  had  reached  Miss  Judy's  gate  by  this 
time,  and  when  Lynn  mechanically  opened  it, 
the  little  lady  passed  through  it  before  she  real 
ized  that  propriety  required  her  to  go  all  the  way 
home  with  Doris,  since  the  young  gentleman 
evidently  did  not  intend  stopping  short  of 
Sidney's  threshold.  But  the  shyness  which 
was  natural  to  her,  and  which  had  dropped 
away  from  her  only  at  Doris's  need,  suddenly 

206 


The  Dancing  Lesson 

came  over  her  again.  She  stood  still,  uneasy, 
blushing,  and  gazing  after  the  young  couple  who 
were  strolling  on  under  the  flowering  locusts.  A 
look  of  apprehension  quickly  clouded  the  blue 
of  her  sweet  old  eyes  with  real  distress.  It 
was  clearly  wrong  for  her  to  have  left  them.  ? 
She  had  made  another  mistake ;  her  neglect 
had  again  placed  Doris  in  a  false  light.  It 
would  be  hard,  indeed,  to  set  this  worst  remiss- 
ness  right.  She  would  gladly  have  called  to  Doris 
even  then,  had  she  not  feared  to  embarrass 
her  further.  The  tears  welled  up,  but  she 
brushed  them  away,  so  that  not  one  step  of 
the  young  people's  progress  up  the  hill  might 
be  lost  to  her  wistful  sight.  Suddenly  she 
cried  out  in  such  dismay  that  Miss  Sophia, 
dozing  as  usual,  was  startled  wide  awake,  and 
came  to  see  what  was  the  matter,  as  soon  as 
she  could  rise  from  her  chair  and  reach  the 
door. 

"  Look  at  that  poor,  dear  child  ! "  cried  Miss 
Judy,  quite  overcome.  "  Just  see  what  she  is 
doing,  sister  Sophia !  And  that,  too,  is  all  my 
fault.  How  was  Doris  —  dear,  dear  little  one  — 
to  know  that  she  must  never  dream  of  taking  off 
her  gloves  in  the  presence  of  a  gentleman,  when 
I  have  never  thought  to  point  out  to  her  the 
indelicacy  of  doing  such  a  thing?  " 

And  Doris  would  not  know  what  to  do 
when  they  reached  the  house.  If  Sidney  were 
only  at  home,  it  would  not  be  so  bad  —  so 
Miss  Judy  said.  But  Sidney  was  sure  to  be  out 
"  on-the-pad,"  as  she  herself  described  her  pro- 

207 


Oldfield 

fessional  rounds,  never  suspecting  that  she 
might  be  using  a  corruption  from  the  French 
of  en  balade.  Miss  Judy  knew  Sidney's  habits 
too  well  to  hope  for  any  help  from  the  chance 
of  her  being  at  home.  She  —  dear  little  lady 
—  was  quite  in  tears  now  and  almost  ready  to 
wring  her  hands. 

Meanwhile,  the  young  man  and  the  young 
maid  went  happily  along  under  the  white-tas- 
selled  locusts,  between  the  sweet-scented  green 
fields  and  the  blooming  gardens,  toward  the 
silver  poplars.  They,  themselves,  were  not 
thinking  of  the  conventionalities,  nor  troubling 
their  handsome  heads  about  the  proprieties. 
Doris  was  chatting  shyly,  expressing  Miss 
Judy's  thoughts  in  Miss  Judy's  phrases  with 
most  winning  quaintness,  and  at  the  same 
time  with  an  unconscious  revelation  now  and 
then  of  her  innocent  self.  A  gleam  of  sweet 
humor  shone  fitfully  from  her  soft,  dark  eyes 
as  firelight  flickers  through  the  dusk,  and  in 
this,  at  least,  gentle  Miss  Judy  had  no  part. 
Doris  told,  with  the  dimple  coming  and  going 
and  many  swift,  shy,  upward  glances,  of  Mon 
sieur  Beauchamp's  bordering  the  lettuce  beds 
with  fleur-de-lis  because  —  as  he  said  —  they 
were  the  imperial  lilies  of  France ;  and  of  the 
scorn  of  the  Empress  Maria,  who  pulled  them 
up  as  soon  as  his  back  was  turned,  —  so  that 
his  feelings  should  not  be  wounded,  —  although 
she  was  quite  determined  thus  to  make  room 
for  the  early  turnips.  And  then,  gaining  confi 
dence  from  Lynn  Gordon's  rapt  attention,  Doris 

208 


The  Dancing  Lesson 

went  on  to  approach  literature.  She  had  an 
instinctive  feeling  that  Miss  Judy  would  have 
advised  books  as  a  theme  for  polite  conversa 
tion  with  a  stranger.  She  had  read,  so  she 
said,  Goldsmith's  poems  and  some  of  Moore's ; 
Miss  Judy  thought  Burns's  poetry  better  suited 
to  a  gentleman's  than  to  a  lady's  taste,  so  Doris 
said.  She  acknowledged  knowing  very  little 
about  novels,  except  The  Children  of  the 
Abbey  and  some  of  Miss  Jane  Austen's  tales. 
Miss  Judy  thought,  so  Doris  went  on  to  say, 
that  prose  was  less  refined  than  poetry  and 
more  apt  to  be  worldly ;  so  that  she  considered 
it  best  to  wait  till  one's  ideals  were  well  formed 
and  firmly  fixed,  before  reading  very  many 
novels.  Miss  Judy  thought  a  great  deal  of 
ideals  ;  she  considered  them,  next  to  principles, 
the  most  important  things  in  the  world,  Doris 
said  earnestly,  looking  gravely  up  in  Lynn  Gor 
don's  face.  There  was  one  novel,  however, 
that  Doris  was  most  eager  to  read.  It  was  a 
very,  very  new  one,  and  it  was  called  Vanity 
Fair.  Perhaps  Mr.  Gordon  might  have  heard 
of  it  —  then  quickly  —  possibly  he  had  even 
read  it.  She  colored  faintly  when  he  said  that 
he  had  read  it  and  that  he  scarcely  thought 
her  quite  old  enough  yet  to  enjoy  it,  although  it 
was  a  great  book. 

"  So  Miss  Judy  thinks,"  sighed  Doris.  "  Per 
haps  she  will  allow  me  to  read  it  when  I  am 
older.  Anyway,  she  lets  me  read  all  the  poetry 
in  her  mother's  dear  old  Beauty  Books,  and  it's 
beautiful.  The  poems  haven't  any  names  signed 
p  209 


Oldfield 

to  them,  but  that  doesn't  matter.  They  go 
with  the  pictures  of  the  lovely,  lovely  ladies  — 
all  with  such  small  waists  and  such  long  curls, 
the  whole  picture  in  a  wreath  of  little  pink 
roses  and  tiny  blue  forget-me-nots  —  those  dear 
old  Beauty  Books  that  smell  so  sweet  of  dried 
rose  leaves ! " 


210 


XTV 

MAKING    PEACE 

SIDNEY  was  not  only  out  "  on-the-pad "  that 
day,  but  she  came  home  later  than  usual.  The 
children  and  Uncle  Watty  were  hungry  and 
waiting  impatiently  for  the  basket ;  and  there 
were  many  urgent  household  duties  to  be  done 
before  bedtime.  Doris  made  one  or  two  shy 
attempts  to  speak  of  her  dancing  lesson  and 
the  incident  which  had  occurred  in  connec 
tion  with  it.  But  speaking  to  Sidney  in  the 
rush  of  her  domestic  affairs  was  like  trying  the 
voice  against  the  roar  of  a  storm.  So  that 
Doris  was  compelled  to  put  off  the  telling  till 
the  next  morning. 

On  the  next  morning,  however,  there  was 
even  less  chance  for  a  quiet  word  than  there 
had  been  on  the  night  before.  Sidney  was  up 
betimes,  to  be  sure,  and  bustling  round,  but  it 
was  merely  in  order  to  be  ready  for  an  impor 
tant  engagement,  a  most  important  one,  which 
brooked  no  delay.  It  was  barely  nine  o'clock 
when  she  set  off  up  the  big  road,  with  her  ball 
of  yarn  held  tightly  under  her  left  arm,  and  her 
knitting-needles  flying  and  flashing  in  the  sun 
light.  Her  sunbonnet  was  pushed  as  far  back 
on  her  yellow  head  as  it  could  be,  to  stay  on  at 

211 


Oldfield 

all,  and  such  was  her  stress  of  mind  that  she 
took  it  off  and  hung  it  on  the  fence,  and  let  her 
hair  down  and  twisted  it  up  again,  thrusting 
the  comb  back  in  place  with  great  emphasis, 
no  less  than  three  times,  within  the  few  minutes 
during  which  Doris  stood  at  the  gate  looking 
after  her. 

It  was  a  hard  task  which  lay  before  Sidney 
that  day.  She  was  the  peacemaker,  as  well  as 
the  funmaker,  for  the  entire  community.  One 
fact  was  as  well  known,  too,  as  the  other,  but 
there  was  nothing  like  an  equal  demand  for  the 
two  offices ;  for  the  Oldfield  people  dwelt  to 
gether,  as  a  rule,  in  such  harmony  as  Sidney 
found,  not  only  monotonous,  but  even  a  little 
dull  now  and  then.  It  is  but  natural  to  wish 
to  exercise  a  talent,  and  to  be  unwilling  to  hide 
it,  when  we  know  ourselves  to  be  possessed  of 
it  in  no  common  degree.  When,  therefore, 
some  foolish  joke  of  Kitty  Mills's  set  the  long- 
smouldering  sense  of  wrong  fiercely  blazing 
in  Miss  Pettus's  breast,  Sidney  could  but  feel 
that  her  longed-for  opportunity  had  come  at 
last.  She  was  not  in  the  least  daunted  by  the 
knowledge  that  the  quarrel  was  an  old  one, 
newly  broken  out  afresh  like  a  rekindled  fire, 
and  consequently  much  harder  to  mend,  or  even 
to  control,  than  if  it  were  new.  Nor  had  her 
'ardor  been  lessened  in  the  slightest  by  find 
ing  that  everything  which  she  had  said  on  the 
previous  evening  had  served  but  as  oil  to  the 
flame  of  Miss  Pettus's  burning  wrath.  Sidney's 
self-confidence  and  courage,  being  of  the  first 

212 


Making  Peace 

order,  only  rose  with  all  these  obstacles.  They 
merely  put  her  all  the  more  on  her  mettle,  and 
she  had  rested  well  and  confidently  through  the 
night,  satisfied  to  have  secured  Miss  Pettus's 
promise  not  to  say  or  to  do  anything  until  the 
following  morning.  Ten  hours'  sleep  must  cool 
even  Miss  Pettus's  temper  in  a  measure,  Sidney 
thought,  like  the  real  philosopher  that  she  was, 
and  she  herself  would  be  better  prepared  with 
arguments  after  time  for  reflection.  Miss  Pet- 
tus  had  flared  up  like  gunpowder,  then  as  al 
ways,  when  least  expected,  so  that  Sidney  had 
hardly  known  at  the  moment  what  to  say. 

And  for  all  her  reliance  upon  her  own 
strength  and  tact,  she  had  none  too  fully 
realized  the  necessity  for  prompt  action.  It 
was  lucky,  indeed,  that  she  was  early;  for,  early 
as  she  set  out,  she  met  Miss  Pettus  coming 
down  the  big  road  "  hotfoot,"  as  Sidney  said 
afterward,  already  on  the  way  to  see  Kitty  Mills. 
It  was  not  of  the  slightest  use,  Miss  Pettus 
cried,  —  beginning  as  soon  as  she  came  within 
speaking  distance  of  the  peacemaker,  —  not  of 
the  least  use  in  the  world  for  Sidney  to  begin 
again  arguing  about  Kitty  Mills's  never  mean 
ing  to  cheat  anybody.  She,  Miss  Pettus,  was 
sick  and  tired  of  having  things  smoothed  over, 
and  of  being  told  and  told  that  she  was  mis 
taken.  She  was  not  mistaken.  The  facts  stood 
for  themselves :  Kitty  Mills  had  said  when  she 
swapped  the  dorminica  for  the  yellow-legged 
pullet  and  a  bit  to  boot,  that  the  dorminica 
laid  big  eggs.  Let  Kitty  Mills  deny  that  if 

213 


Oldfield 

she  dared !  Then  let  Sidney,  or  the  whole  of 
Oldfield,  come  and  look  at  the  little  eggs  that 
that  dorminica  did  lay.  It  was  bad  enough  to 
be  so  cheated  in  a  hen  trade,  without  having  it 
thrown  up  to  you  almost  every  day  of  your  life, 
in  some  silly  joke.  What  did  Kitty  Mills 
mean,  except  insult,  by  sending  her  word  that 
she  couldn't  expect  a  fat  hen  to  lay  the  same 
•  up  hill  and  down  dale.  And  then,  as  if  that 
were  not  enough,  what  did  Kitty  Mills  do,  but 
send  back  that  same  yellow-legged  pullet,  and 
even  the  very  same  bit,  offering  to  swap  again. 
All  this  Miss  Pettus  demanded  breathlessly  in 
unabated  excitement. 

"  I  give  you,  and  anybody  else,  my  solemn 
word,  as  a  member  of  the  Methodist  Episcopal 
Church,  that  that  was  the  tenth  time  that  the 
identical  yellow-legged  pullet  and  the  identical 
bit  have  been  toted  up  this  hill  and  toted  down 
again.  Kitty  Mills  offers  to  swap  back  every 
time  she  thinks  of  it,  just  to  be  aggravating.  No, 
you  needn't  talk  to  me,  Sidney.  Kitty  Mills 
means  to  show  me  that  she  believes  it's  the 
pullet  and  the  bit  that  I  care  about,  not  the 
principle  of  the  thing." 

Plainly  it  was  now  become  a  case  for  diplo 
macy,  not  for  further  argument.  Sidney,  there 
fore,  said  simply,  like  a  wise  woman,  that  she 
would  go  at  once  and  try  to  make  Kitty  Mills 
see  how  foolish  she  had  been. 

"  I  told  Miss  Pettus,"  Sidney  said  later  to 
Kitty  Mills,  when  giving  her  an  account  of 
this  encounter  with  Miss  Pettus,  "that  there 

214 


Making  Peace 

was  no  more  satisfaction  in  quarrelling  with 
you  than  in  fighting  a  feather  bed.  But  I 
couldn't  do  much  with  her.  Nobody  can  budge 
'er,  once  her  dander  is  up.  I  left  her  there, 
planted  right  in  the  middle  of  the  big  road, 
with  her  skirt  dragging  behind,  and  held  high 
before,  showing  her  pigeon-toes  turned  in  worse 
than  ever,  and  her  bonnet  hung  wild  over  her 
left  ear,  as  it  always  is  when  she's  in  one  of  her 
tantrums.  And  now  I've  come  after  you,  and  I 
want  you  to  stop  laughing,  —  right  off  the  reel, 
too,  —  and  listen  to  what  I've  got  to  say.  I'll 
vow  I  don't  know  what  to  make  of  you  myself, 
Kitty  Mills!  What's  this  I  hear  about  all  the 
Millses  a-swarming  down  from  Green  River, 
and  about  you're  inviting  them  to  dinner?  It 
certainly  does  seem  as  if  the  more  they  pile 
on  you  the  better  you  like  it." 

Mrs.  Mills,  trying  to  stop  laughing,  and  wip 
ing  her  eyes,  protested  (laughing  harder  than 
ever)  that  Sidney  was  talking  nonsense.  She 
declared  that  nobody  was  piling  anything  on 
her.  She  said  that  she  was  always  delighted  to 
have  Sam's  sisters  come,  because  Sam  liked 
to  have  them,  and  Father  Mills  liked  it,  too. 

"  Well,  they  oughtn't  to  like  it ;  they  ought  to 
be  ashamed  to  like  it.  It's  nothing  less  than 
scandalous  to  allow  it,  when  you've  got  to  cook 
the  dinner  after  nursing  all  night,  and  the 
weather's  getting  real  warm,"  said  Sidney, 
sharply,  jerking  out  a  knitting-needle,  and 
slapping  the  ball  of  yarn  back  under  her  arm. 

"  But   you    know,  Sidney,  neither  Sam   nor 

2I5 


Oldfield 

Father  Mills  have  much  enjoyment.  Sam's 
had  a  mighty  hard  time  this  winter,  with  the 
misery  in  his  back,  coming  on  whenever  he 
tried  to  do  anything;  and  all  his  bad  luck 
too." 

"  What  bad  luck  ?  "  demanded  Sidney,  hard- 
heartedly. 

"  Why,  didn't  you  know  about  his  corn  ? 
Every  ear  of  his  share  of  the  crop,  that  his 
tenant  raised  on  that  field  of  mine,  rotted  right 
in  the  pen,  when  nobody  else  lost  any.  I  de 
clare  I  can't  yet  see  how  it  was." 

"  Did  Sam  cover  his  pen  as  everybody  else 
did  ?  "  asked  Sidney,  relentlessly. 

Kitty  Mills  stared,  growing  grave  for  an 
instant  or  two,  being  much  puzzled.  She 
wondered  what  in  the  world  the  question  could 
possibly  have  to  do  with  her  husband's  loss  of 
his  corn. 

"  No.  He  didn't  cover  the  corn,"  she  replied, 
much  at  a  loss  still.  "  He  thought  the  winter 
was  going  to  be  drier  than  it  turned  out  to 
be.  And  he  doesn't  often  make  mistakes  in 
prophesying  about  the  weather.  He's  a  mighty 
close,  good  observer  of  all  the  signs.  I've  known 
him  to  sit  still  a  whole  day,  without  getting 
out  of  his  chair,  watching  to  see  whether  the 
ground-hog  saw  its  shadow." 

"  Yes,  I  lay  that's  all  so.  I  reckon  he  would 
sit  still  long  enough  to  find  out  almost  any 
thing,"  responded  Sidney,  dryly.  "  There's 
not  much  use  in  talking  to  you,  Kitty  Mills; 
you're  just  as  unmanageable  in  your  way  as 

216 


Making  Peace 

Miss  Pettus  is  in  hers.  But  I  know  how  to  get 
round  her  if  you'll  help  me  do  it.  You  know 
as  well  as  I  do  how  good-hearted  she  is,  in  spite 
of  that  peppery  temper  of  hers." 

Kitty  Mills  nodded  silently,  laughing  again 
so  that  she  could  not  speak. 

"  Well,  I  want  you  to  let  me  ask  her  to  come 
down  here  and  take  care  of  the  old  man,  while 
you  are  getting  dinner  for  that  gang  of  Millses 
—  when  they  swarm  down  from  Green  River. 
I  would  offer  to  do  it  myself,  but  I  think  I  can 
help  you  more  by  talking  to  the  Millses  while 
you  are  busy  about  the  cooking." 

"  Of  course  you  can, "  assented  Kitty  Mills, 
eagerly.  "  And  you  mustn't  let  me  forget  to 
fix  up  a  basket  full  of  the  nicest  things  for 
Uncle  Watty  and  the  children." 

"  Never  mind  about  that  now.  Only  I'll  tell 
you  that  I'm  not  going  to  pack  off  the  cooked 
victuals.  You've  got  all  the  work  you  can  do. 
But  you  may  give  me  something  raw.  We 
won't  bother  now  about  the  basket.  The  main 
thing  is  to  settle  this  everlasting  old  dorminica ! 
I  never  was  so  tired  of  anything  in  all  my  born 
days,  as  I  am  of  that  contrary  old  hen,  and 
there's  only  one  way  to  settle  her.  If  you'll  let 
me  ask  Miss  Pettus  to  come,  she  will  do  it  in  a 
moment  —  just  to  make  you  ashamed  of  your 
self,"  Sidney  said,  trying  not  to  smile,  knowing 
that  to  do  so  would  be  to  start  Kitty  Mills 
laughing  again. 

The  quarrel  having  been  thus  adjusted, 
Sidney  went  to  tell  Miss  Judy  about  it,  know- 

217 


Oldfield 

ing  how  pleased  she  would  be  to  hear  it,  even 
though  the  news  seemed  to  describe  a  mere 
truce  rather  than  to  be  a  declaration  of  peace. 
The  little  lady  was  just  crossing  the  big  road, 
returning  from  a  visit  to  Tom  Watson  and  from 
a  futile  effort  to  cheer  Anne.  She  stopped  at 
her  own  gate,  feeling  depressed  by  what  she  had 
just  seen  and  looking  rather  sad,  and  waited  for 
Sidney  to  come  up,  welcoming  her  as  one  wel 
comes  a  strong,  fresh  breeze  on  a  heavy  day. 
They  sat  down  in  the  passage,  where  Miss 
Sophia  was  already  seated,  and  the  two  little 
sisters  listened  to  all  that  Sidney  had  to  tell  of 
the  quarrel,  without  the  vaguest  notion  that 
they  were  hearing  a  truly  humorous  account 
of  an  utterly  absurd  affair.  Instead,  they  be 
gan  listening  with  the  gravest  concern,  which 
turned  gradually  to  the  happiest  relief. 

Miss  Judy's  thoughts,  however,  were  too  full 
of  Doris  and  the  dancing-lesson  and  the  events 
of  the  previous  day  to  talk  long  about  anything 
else.  She  accordingly  told  Sidney  the  whole 
story  in  minutest  detail,  as  soon  as  she  could 
get  in  a  word,  wondering  somewhat  that  Sidney 
had  not  already  heard  it  from  Doris,  until  the 
circumstances  were  explained.  With  the  men 
tion  of  the  young  man  the  same  thought  stirred, 
silently  and  secretly,  in  both  the  women's  breasts, 
naturally  enough,  since  they  were  both  true 
women.  It  had,  indeed,  stirred  in  Miss  Judy's 
innocent  heart  while  she  lay  dreaming  with 
her  blue  eyes  open  in  the  darkness  of  the 
preceding  night.  But  neither  Miss  Judy  nor 

218 


Making  Peace 

Sidney  spoke  of  what  they  were  feeling  rather 
than  thinking.  Women  rarely  voice  these 
subtle  stirrings  of  the  purely  feminine  instinct, 
if  indeed  they  have  any  words  for  what  they 
thus  feel.  All  that  Sidney  said  was  to  remark, 
in  a  matter-of-fact  tone,  that  she  must  be  going, 
as  the  sun  was  getting  high,  and  she  had  several 
pressing  engagements  to  keep  before  she  would 
be  free  to  fulfil  her  promise  to  help  Kitty  Mills 
entertain  that  gang  of  Millses,  swarming  down 
from  Green  River. 

"  If  I  can  get  away  in  time  —  for  I'm  engaged 
to  take  supper  with  Mrs.  Alexander,  as  the  doc 
tor  has  gone  'way  out  on  one  of  his  long  trips 
to  the  country — I'll  drop  in  at  old  lady  Gor 
don's  and  see  what  the  old  Hessian  is  about." 

Miss  Judy  shook  her  little  curly  head  at 
Sidney's  calling  any  one  such  a  hard  name.  She 
could  not  let  such  a  serious  matter  pass  without 
remonstrance.  Yet  at  the  same  time  she  smiled 
and  looked  rather  mysterious.  She  had  secretly 
hit  upon  a  nice  little  plan  while  talking  about 
Doris  and  the  young  gentleman,  and  she  could 
hardly  wait  till  Sidney  was  out  of  hearing 
before  disclosing  it  to  Miss  Sophia. 

"  Of  course  I  couldn't  mention  it  to  Sidney 
until  I  knew  your  opinion,  sister  Sophia.  I  am 
sure,  though,  that  I  am  only  expressing  your 
ideas  —  less  well  than  you  would  express  them 
yourself  —  when  I  say  that  it  is  our  plain  duty 
to  do  something  at  once,  to  show  our  high  re 
gard  for  Doris,  something  to  place  her  in  a 
proper  social  light  at  a  single  stroke.  It  is 

2  19 


Oldfield 

all  important  that  a  girl  should  be  properly 
launched ;  "  Miss  Judy  went  on  as  though  she 
had  given  long  and  deep  consideration  to  the 
subject,  and  as  if  she  and  Miss  Sophia  were  the 
all-powerful  social  dictators  of  a  large  and  com 
plicated  circle  of  the  highest  fashion.  "  Just 
think  what  a  difference  it  might  have  made 
for  us,  had  our  dear  mother  lived  and  Becky's 
too,  poor  child." 

"  Just  so,  sister  Judy,"  responded  Miss 
Sophia,  with  the  greatest  promptness  and 
decision. 

"  I  thought  I  could  not  be  mistaken  as  to 
your  views  and  wishes,"  said  Miss  Judy,  truly 
gratified.  "  And  you  don't  think,  do  you,  that 
it  is  at  all  necessary  for  us  to  do  anything  very 
elaborate  or  —  expensive?  "  she  continued,  as  if 
it  were  solely  a  consideration  of  the  finest  taste. 
"  To  my  notion  a  tea  would  be  most  genteel, 
most  highly  refined;  but  you  are,  of  course,  the 
one  to  decide.  Your  judgment  is  always  more 
practical  than  mine.  I  should  not  dare  rely 
upon  my  own  in  so  important  a  matter.  But 
as  I  look  at  it,  a  tea  would  serve  as  well  or 
better  than  anything  else  we  could  do  to  show 
everybody  —  including  old  lady  Gordon  and 
her  grandson,  who  may  not,  being  a  stranger, 
and  seeing  Sidney  and  Uncle  Watty,  under 
stand  how  Doris  has  been  brought  up  —  the 
high  estimation  in  which  we  hold  the  dear 
child." 

"Just  so,  sister  Judy,"  responded  Tvliss  So 
phia,  with  positively  inflexible  firmness  and 

220 


Making  Peace 

almost  abrupt  promptness,  when  she  now  began 
to  understand  that  eating  was  in  question. 

"  It  is  really  a  very  simple  matter  to  arrange 
a  tea,"  Miss  Judy  went  on  eagerly,  her  sweet 
face  growing  rosy.  "  There's  mother's  sea-shell 
china,  so  thin,  so  pink,  and  so  refined.  And 
there's  her  best  tea-cloth  that  she  planted  the 
flax  for,  and  bleached  and  spun  and  wove  and 
hemstitched  — all  with  her  own  dear  hands.  I 
am  sure  that  the  darn  in  the  middle  of  it  won't 
show  at  alt,  if  we  set  the  cut-glass  bowl  over  it. 
And  we  can  fill  the  bowl  so  full  of  maiden's 
blush  roses  that  the  nick  out  of  the  side  will 
never  be  seen.  Mother's  sea-shell  china  and 
the  blushes  are  about  the  same  color.  Why,  I 
can  actually  see  the  table  now  —  as  if  it  were  a 
picture  —  all  a  delicate,  lovely  pink !  "  cried  little 
Miss  Judy,  blushing  with  eagerness,  and  all  a 
delicate,  lovely  pink  herself.  "  And  the  food 
must  be  as  dainty  as  the  table.  Something  very 
light  and  appetizing.  Isn't  that  your  idea, 
sister  Sophia  ? " 

Miss  Sophia  assented  as  usual,  but  not  quite 
so  promptly,  nor  quite  so  cordially,  and  any 
body  but  Miss  Judy  must  have  seen  how  her 
face  fell.  She  had  known  so  many  things  that 
were  light  and  appetizing,  and  so  few  that  were 
really  satisfying  —  poor  Miss  Sophia! 

"  Delicate  slices  of  the  thinnest,  pinkest  cold 
tongue  will  be  the  only  meat  necessary.  Any 
thing  more  would  be  less  genteel,  and  I  am 
almost  certain  that  Mr.  Pettus  would  exchange 
the  half  of  a  beef's  tongue  for  the  other  head  of 


221 


Oldfield 

early  york.  Don't  you  remember,  sister  So 
phia,  how  much  he  liked  the  other  two  —  the 
ones  he  took  in  exchange  for  the  sugar  ?  "  Miss 
Judy  chirruped  on,  with  growing  enthusiasm. 
"  And  Merica  could  make  some  of  her  light 
rolls,  and  shape  a  little  pat  of  butter  like  a 
water-lily,  and  put  it  in  the  smallest  tin  bucket 
with  the  tight  top  and  let  it  down  in  the  well 
by  a  string,  till  it  got  to  be  real  cool  and  firm. 
For  dessert  we've  the  tiny  jar  of  pear  preserves 
which  we've  been  saving  so  long.  Nothing 
could  be  more  delicate  than  they  are,  clear  as 
amber,  with  the  little  rose-geranium  leaf  at  the 
bottom  of  the  jar,  giving  both  flavor  and  per 
fume,  till  you  can't  tell  whether  it  looks  pretti 
est,  tastes  nicest,  or  smells  sweetest." 

Miss  Judy's  flax-flower  eyes,  bright  with  de 
lightful  excitement,  were  fixed  on  Miss  Sophia's 
face,  without  seeing,  as  grosser  eyes  would  have 
seen,  that  Miss  Sophia's  mouth  actually  watered. 
There  was  a  momentary  silence  ;  and  then  an 
uneasy  thought  suddenly  clouded  Miss  Judy's 
beaming,  blushing  countenance. 

"  I  had  forgotten  about  that  new-fashioned 
dish.  Of  course  we  must  have  some  of  those 
delicately  fried  potatoes,  some  like  we  had  at 
old  lady  Gordon's  supper;  they  are  cut  very,  very 
thin  and  browned  till  they  are  crisp  and  beau 
tiful  —  dry  and  rustling,  as  the  golden  leaves 
of  the  fall.  Yes,  I  am  afraid  the  tea  will  not 
be  really  complete,  will  not  be  quite  up  to  the 
latest  fashion,  unless  we  have  a  little  dish  of  those. 
And  we  haven't  any  potatoes,  except  the  handful 

232 


Making  Peace 

of  peach-blows  that  we  have  saved  for  planting." 
She  sighed  in  perplexity,  looking  at  her  sister. 

"Just  so,  sister  Judy,"  responded  Miss  So 
phia,  more  promptly  and  more  firmly,  if  possible, 
than  she  had  yet  spoken. 

Miss  Judy  sat  for  a  moment  in  dejected 
silence,  turning  the  matter  over  in  her  mind. 
Miss  Sophia  rocked  heavily,  the  sleepy  creak 
of  her  low  chair  mingling  pleasantly  with  the 
contented  murmur  of  the  bees  in  the  honey 
suckle. 

"  Oh ! "  exclaimed  Miss  Judy,  her  face  illu 
minated  by  a  bright  inspiration.  u  How  dull  of 
me  not  to  think  of  it  before.  Now  I  see  how 
we  can  eat  the  peach-blows  and  plant  them 
too !  We  have  only  to  pare  them  very  thin, 
being  very,  very  careful  to  leave  all  the  eyes  in 
the  peel.  Then  we  can  plant  the  peel  and  fry 
the  inside." 

"  But  they  won't  grow,"  protested  poor  Miss 
Sophia,  almost  groaning  and  quite  desperate, 
foreseeing  the  long  winter  fast  which  must 
follow  this  short  summer  feast. 

"  Oh,  but  they'll  have  to,  if  we  plant  them  in 
the  dark  of  the  moon,"  said  Miss  Judy,  with 
unabated  enthusiasm. 

Miss  Sophia,  now  on  the  verge  of  tears, 
turned  her  broad  face  away,  so  that  Miss  Judy 
should  not  see  how  overcome  she  was,  and  that 
eager  little  lady  sprang  up,  without  suspecting, 
and  ran  to  climb  on  a  chair  in  order  to  look 
in  the  tea-caddy.  This  always  stood  on  the 
mantelpiece  in  their  room.  It  was  drier  there, 

223 


Oldfield 

Miss  Judy  said;  it  was  also  safer  from  Merica's 
depredations,  but  Miss  Judy  said  nothing  about 
that.  There  was  a  momentary  dismayed  silence 
as  a  single  quick  glance  noted  the  stage  of 
its  contents.  She  set  the  caddy  in  its  place, 
and  descended  slowly  from  the  chair,  thinking 
deeply. 

"  Sister  Sophia,  do  you  happen  to  know 
whether  Mr.  Pettus  has  been  getting  any  boxes 
of  tea  lately  ? "  she  asked  casually,  almost  in 
differently,  as  though  it  were  an  entirely  irrele 
vant  matter  of  but  small  consequence. 

Miss  Sophia,  who  kept  better  advised  as  to 
the  edible  side  of  the  general  store  than  she 
did  regarding  most  things,  nodded  with  reviv 
ing  spirit. 

"  Then  I  really  must  go  down  there  at  once. 
It's  a  shame  for  me  to  have  neglected  a  plain 
duty  so  long.  You  and  I  both  know,  sister 
Sophia,  how  much  it  means  to  Mr.  Pettus  to 
be  able  to  tell  his  customers  what  we  think  of 
his  teas.  He  has  certainly  told  us  often  enough 
that  our  opinion  has  a  considerable  commercial 
value.  For  this  reason  —  and  on  account  of 
his  being  so  obliging  about  exchanging  things 
—  it  isn't  right  for  us  to  be  unwilling  to  taste 
any  other  variety  than  the  one  we  like.  Mr. 
Pettus  unfortunately  is  aware  that  we  care 
personally  for  no  kind  except  the  English 
breakfast.  That  no  doubt  makes  him  back 
ward  in  asking  us  to  sample  the  other  varieties. 
And  that  is  not  right,  nor  at  all  neighborly,  you 
see,  sister  Sophia,"  so  Miss  Judy  argued,  be- 

224 


Making  Peace 

lieving  every  word  she  said,  with  all  her  honest, 
kind  little  heart. 

"  Just  so,  sister  Judy,"  responded  Miss  Sophia, 
as  readily  and  unreservedly  as  Miss  Judy  could 
have  wished. 

Forthwith  Miss  Judy  began  to  get  ready  for 
going  to  the  store.  She  got  out  the  lace  shawl, 
which  had  been  her  mother's,  and  which  was 
darned  and  redarned  till  little  of  the  original 
web  was  left.  She  took  it  out  of  its  silver  paper 
and  folded  it  again  with  dainty  care,  so  that  the 
middle  point  would  just  touch  the  heels  of  her 
heel-less  prunella  gaiters.  Any  crookedness  in 
the  location  of  that  middle  point  would  have 
shocked  Miss  Judy  like  some  moral  obliquity. 
The  strings  of  her  dove-colored  bonnet  of 
drawn  silk  must  also  be  tied  "  just  so "  in  a 
prim  little  bow  precisely  under  her  pretty  chin. 
Miss  Sophia  was  always  anxiously  consulted  as 
to  the  size  and  the  angle  and  the  precision  of 
that  little  bow,  as  if  she  had  been  some  sharp 
critic,  who  was  most  difficult  to  please.  And 
then,  when  Miss  Judy  had  drawn  on  her  picnic 
gloves  of  black  lace,  she  unrolled  the  elaborate 
wrapping  from  her  sunshade,  which  was  hardly 
bigger  than  a  doll's  parasol,  and  turned  it  up 
flat  against  its  short  handle.  Finally,  having 
pinned  a  fresh  handkerchief  in  a  snowy  triangle 
to  the  left  side  of  her  small  waist  so  that  her 
left  hand  might  be  free  to  hold  up  her  skirt, 
she.  took  the  dainty  pinch  of  black  bombazine 
between  her  forefinger  and  thumb,  and,  with 
the  sunshade  in  the  other  little  hand,  sailed  off 
Q  225 


Oldfield 

down  the  big  road,  smiling  back  at  Miss 
Sophia. 

She. was  always  a  brisk  walker,  and  she  had 
nearly  reached  the  front  of  the  store  before  Mr. 
Pettus  knew  that  she  was  coming.  But  Uncle 
Watty,  fortunately,  saw  her  approach  from  his 
post  of  lookout  over  the  whole  village,  as  he 
sat  on  the  goods-box  in  the  shade,  whittling 
happily,  the  pile  of  red  cedar  shavings  rising 
high  and  dry  through  the  windless,  rainless 
summer  days.  Without  stirring  from  his  com 
fortable  place,  Uncle  Watty  was  thus  enabled, 
by  merely  putting  his  head  in  the  door,  to  give 
Mr.  Pettus  instant  warning  of  Miss  Judy's  near 
ness.  Even  then  there  hardly  would  have 
been  time  for  Mr.  Pettus  to  make  the  usual 
preparation  for  the  little  lady's  visit,  had  she 
not  stopped  to  shake  hands  with  Uncle  Watty 
and  to  inquire  about  the  misery  in  his  broken 
leg.  She  lingered  still  a  moment  longer  to  ask, 
with  all  the  deference  due  a  weather  prophet 
of  Uncle  Watty's  reputation,  when  he  thought 
there  would  be  rain,  this  being  indeed  a  matter 
of  importance,  with  the  consideration  of  the 
planting  of  the  peach-blow  peel  lying  heavy  in 
the  back  of  her  mind. 

Mr.  Pettus,  meanwhile,  made  good  use  of  the 
limited  opportunity.  Hastily  taking  up  a  large 
clean  sheet  of  brown  paper,  he  quickly  divided  it 
into  six  squares  with  the  speed  and  skill  of  long 
practice.  These  squares  he  then  hastily  laid  at 
regular  spaces  along  the  counter.  Reaching 
round  for  his  scoop,  he  ladled  out  a  generous 

226 


Making  Peace 

quantity  of  tea,  all  of  a  kind.  He  had  but  one 
chest  of  tea,  yet  when  the  contents  of  the  scoop 
was  distributed  in  six  separate  heaps,  it  looked 
quite  as  different  as  he  meant  it  to  look,  and 
as  Miss  Judy  believed  it  to  be. 

She  came  in,  radiant  with  smiles,  fanning 
herself  almost  coquettishly  with  her  sunshade, 
and  congratulating  Mr.  Pettus  on  the  growth 
of  his  business,  as  her  beaming  gaze  fell  upon 
the  array  of  teas.  To  think  that  he  should  find 
demand  for  half  a  dozen  varieties  !  And,  by  the 
way,  that  was  the  very  thing  which  she  had  come 
expressly  to  see  him  about.  Then  followed  the 
usual  long  and  polite  conversation.  Mr.  Pettus 
again  apologized  for  asking  Miss  Judy  to 
sample  so  many  kinds  of  tea,  knowing  that  she 
really  liked  but  one  kind.  Miss  Judy,  never  to 
be  outdone  in  politeness,  protested  on  her  side 
that  it  was  not  the  slightest  trouble  to  herself 
or  Miss  Sophia,  whose  judgment  was  more 
reliable  than  her  own,  to  test  the  six  varieties, 
and,  indeed,  as  many  more  as  might  be  neces 
sary.  She  really  would  feel  hurt,  so  she  said, 
if  Mr.  Pettus  ever  again  thought  of  hesitating 
to  send  them  every  variety  in  his  stock.  She 
admitted  that  she  should  never  have  been  so 
thoughtless  as  to  let  him  find  out  that  her  sister 
and  herself  had  a  preference  for  one  kind  above 
another.  But  she  begged  him  to  believe  that  it 
was  mere  thoughtlessness,  not  any  wish  to  be 
disobliging.  The  upshot  of  it  all  was,  that  the 
six  heaps  of  tea  were  made  into  a  parcel  too 
large  for  Miss  Judy  to  carry,  and  Uncle  Watty, 

227 


Oldfield 

who  had  been  an  interested  listener  from  his 
seat  on  the  goods-box,  kindly  offered  to  bring  it 
with  him  and  leave  it  at  Miss  Judy's  door  on 
his  way  home  that  evening. 

Miss  Judy  thought  Uncle  Watty's  offer  most 
kind,  so  very  kind,  indeed,  that  she  straightway 
began  to  be  troubled  about  inviting  him  to  the 
tea-party.  She,  herself,  did  not  mind  his  leg  at 
all ;  it  only  made  her  more  sorry  for  him,  and 
she  knew  that  the  same  was  true  of  Miss 
Sophia.  It  was  not  his  fault,  poor  soul,  that 
his  leg  had  been  set  east  and  west,  instead  of 
north  and  south,  as  Sidney  said.  Maybe  young 
Mr.  Gordon  would  not  mind  either;  he  certainly 
seemed  to  be  kind-hearted.  But  there  was  his 
grandmother,  who  was  such  a  game-maker. 
Old  lady  Gordon  did  not  mean  any  harm,  per 
haps;  Miss  Judy  never  believed  that  any  one 
meant  any  harm.  Still,  Doris  might  be  morti 
fied  if  she  thought  Uncle  Watty  was  being 
criticised  —  which  would  be  the  crudest  thing 
that  Miss  Judy  could  imagine,  and  the  furthest 
from  the  secret  object  of  the  entertainment. 
She  was  frightened,  and  ready  for  the  moment 
to  give  up  the  tea-party.  Then,  brightening, 
she  began  to  hope  that  something  would  occur 
to  spare  Uncle  Watty's  feelings  —  and  yet  keep 
him  away  from  the  tea-party.  Thus  she  thought 
as  she  went  home,  and  thus  she  continued  think 
ing  aloud  after  she  fancied  that  she  was  consult 
ing  Miss  Sophia. 

"  For  of  course  we  can't  give  the  tea  without 
inviting  old  lady  Gordon.  Her  social  position 

228 


Making  Peace 

makes  it  essential  that  she  shall  be  invited  if 
Doris  is  to  be  properly  launched,"  Miss  Judy 
said,  just  as  though  she  were  some  artful,  cal 
culating  schemer,  dealing  with  some  keen  and 
suspicious  stranger  who  was  likely  to  raise  ob 
jections.  "And  I  am  sure  that  I  merely  express 
your  views,  when  I  say  that  we  could  not  be 
so  discourteous  as  to  invite  old  lady  Gordon 
without  also  inviting  her  grandson,  when  he  is 
a  guest  at  her  house." 

And  Miss  Sophia  answered  all  this  artfulness 
firmly,  even  sternly,  as  if  she  were  an  able 
abetter,  standing  ready  to  carry  out  the  dark, 
deeply  laid  plot. 


•29 


XV 

SIDNEY    DOES    HER    DUTY 

THESE  pleasant  plans  were  entirely  unsus 
pected  by  Sidney.  She  felt,  however,  the  need 
of  something  of  the  kind,  and  —  with  charac 
teristic  energy  —  entered  forthwith  into  the 
making  and  the  carrying  out  of  some  of  her 
own,  of  a  different  kind,  though  leading  in  the 
same  direction. 

The  call  upon  old  lady  Gordon,  a  first  step, 
turned  out  a  good  deal  of  a  disappointment. 
Lynn  Gordon  was,  to  be  sure,  in  attendance 
upon  his  grandmother  when  Sidney  appeared, 
and  she  thus  secured  a  glimpse  of  him,  but  noth 
ing  more  satisfactory,  nothing  nearly  approach 
ing  acquaintance.  As  ill  luck  would  have  it,  old 
lady  Gordon,  who  rarely  left  home,  chanced  to  be 
:  just  starting  to  "  make  a  broad,"  as  the  Oldfield 
people  described  visiting  beyond  the  village. 
The  ancient  family  carriage,  with  its  fat  pair 
of  old  grays,  already  waited  at  the  front  gate 
in  the  shade  of  the  cypress  tree.  On  the  back 
of  the  coach  was  a  trunk-rack,  put  there,  doubt 
less,  at  the  building  of  the  vehicle  in  the  days 
when  the  country  gentry  travelled  far  in  their 
own  coaches,  and  had  need  of  their  wardrobes 
on  the  road.  Under  the  reign  of  the  present 

230 


Sidney  Does  Her  Duty 

mistress,  who  had  not  for  years  gone  farther 
than  a  single  day's  journey  from  home,  the 
trunk-rack  had  been  turned  to  other  than  its 
original  uses,  and  on  that  particular  morning  it 
bore  a  large  hamper  of  food.  This  was  so  full 
and  heavy  that  it  had  been  all  that  Enoch  and 
Eunice  could  do  to  carry  it  between  them;  and, 
now  when  it  was  securely  strapped  in  its  place 
and  Enoch  was  seated  upon  the  box  of  the 
coach,  Eunice  stood  leaning  over  the  fence, 
with  her  arms  rolled  in  her  apron,  giving  Enoch 
final  directions  for  the  serving  of  the  luncheon, 
so  that  there  might  be  no  trouble  with  the 
mistress. 

Old  lady  Gordon  was  coming  down  the  front 
walk  of  mossy,  greening  bricks,  leading  from 
the  door  to  the  gate ;  and  she  looked  a  hand 
some,  stately  figure  in  her  flowing  white  dress, 
notwithstanding  her  age  and  her  weight.  But 
Sidney's  gaze  and  Sidney's  interest  were  not 
for  old  lady  Gordon;  they  were  for  the  tall  young 
man  on  whose  arm  she  leaned,  as  if  she  liked 
to  lean  on  it,  not  as  if  she  needed  its  support. 
It  was  the  first  time  that  Sidney  had  seen  him 
nearer  than  across  the  meeting-house.  When 
she  now  observed  how  like  his  grandmother  he 
was,  she  suddenly  stopped  quite  still  and,  laying 
her  knitting  on  the  gate-post,  took  off  her 
bonnet  and  let  her  hair  down  and  twisted  it 
up  again,  very,  very  tight  indeed. 

"  Good  morning,  Sidney.  You  know  my 
grandson,"  old  lady  Gordon  said  carelessly, 
going  straight  on  to  the  carriage. 

231 


Oldfield 

She  liked  Sidney  as  she  liked  everybody  who 
never  bored  her,  but  it  did  not  occur  to  her  to 
allow  Sidney's  —  or  anybody's  —  coming  to  in 
terfere  with  her  "  making  a  broad  "  or  doing 
anything  that  she  wished  to  do.  Accordingly 
she  now  ascended  the  folding  steps  of  the 
coach,  which  were  already  unfolded  for  her  con 
venience,  and  with  her  grandson's  assistance 
deliberately  settled  herself  in  perfect  comfort 
by  unhasting  degrees.  Her  bag,  which  a  little 
negro  boy  presently  came  running  to  bring,  was 
then  hung  inside  the  carriage  close  to  her  hand. 

"  Now !  "  said  old  lady  Gordon.  "  Jump  in, 
Sidney,  and  I'll  take  you  home.  It  will  not  be 
at  all  out  of  my  way,  and  you  can  tell  me  the 
news  as  we  go  along." 

Sidney,  surprised,  stood  hesitating.  She  had 
been  looking  on,  taking  notes  for  future  conver 
sational  uses.  It  was  not  every  day  that  she 
could  gather  such  good  materials ;  and  she  had 
not  lost  a  detail  of  this  starting  of  old  lady 
Gordon  to  "  make  a  broad."  And,  while  busily 
laying  these  matters  away  in  the  rich  storehouse 
of  her  memory,  Sidney  had,  at  the  same  time, 
been  calculating  with,  certainty  upon  the  fine 
opportunity  for  making  the  young  man's 
acquaintance  which  old  lady  Gordon's  going 
would  give  her.  It  is  the  first  instinct  of  a  wise 
mother  to  learn  all  that  she  can,  —  advanta 
geous  or  otherwise  —  of  any  man  who  may 
look  toward  her  young  daughter.  It  is  the  last 
instinct  of  the  wise  mother  to  learn  anything 
to  the  disadvantage  of  any  man  at  whom  her 

232 


Sidney  Does  Her  Duty 

daughter  may  look.  Sidney,  wise  enough  in 
her  blunt,  straightforward  way,  was  far  from 
being  a  designing  woman ;  she  was  merely  try 
ing,  in  her  blundering  manner,  to  do  what  she 
believed  to  be  her  duty  by  Doris.  Naturally, 
then,  she  hesitated,  unwilling  to  lose  this  good 
chance  of  making  Lynn  Gordon's  acquaintance, 
the  best  that  she  was  ever  likely  to  have. 

Old  lady  Gordon  glanced  at  her  impatiently, 
as  she  would  have  done  at  any  hindrance.  She 
had  not  the  faintest  inkling  of  what  was  pass 
ing  through  Sidney's  mind.  She  had  never 
thought  it  as  well  worth  while  to  try  to  under 
stand  Sidney,  as  Sidney  had  always  found  it 
useful  and  easy  to  understand  her.  Old  lady 
Gordon  simply  wished  to  take  Sidney  along  in 
order  that  she  might  hear  the  news,  as  she  would 
have  taken  the  morning  paper,  —  had  Oldfield 
had  one, — to  toss  it  aside  after  turning  it  inside 
out.  She  saw  plainly  enough  that  for  some 
reason  Sidney  was  unwilling  to  come  with  her, 
but  she  did  not  care  about  people's  unwilling 
ness  if  they  did  what  she  wished.  Old  lady 
Gordon  never  made  any  mystery  of  her  selfish 
ness.  She  was  too  scornful  of  the  opinion  of 
others  to  care  what  anybody  else  felt  or 
thought,  or  said  or  did,  so  long  as  she  got 
what  she  wanted.  All  this  was  well  known  to 
Sidney ;  it  was  also  perfectly  plain  to  her  that, 
if  she  did  not  take  the  seat  in  the  carriage,  old 
lady  Gordon  would  make  Lynn  take  it  and  go  at 
least  part  of  the  way.  Like  the  philosopher  that 
she  was,  Sidney  accordingly  took  the  seat.  One 

233 


Oldfield 

of  the  wide  folding  steps  was  then  shut  up,  and 
on  the  remaining  step  the  little  negro  perched 
himself,  —  just  as  Lady  Castlewood's  page  used 
to  perch  on  hers.  No  reason  for  his  going 
was  apparent  then,  or  ever.  But  a  little  negro 
boy  always  had  ridden  on  the  step  of  old  lady 
Gordon's  coach,  and  the  fact  that  a  thing  always 
had  been  done,  has  always  been  a  good  and 
sufficient  reason  for  many  singular  things  in 
this  Pennyroyal  Region  —  as  already  remarked 
ere  this.  And  thus,  everything  now  being 
settled  to  old  lady  Gordon's  entire  satisfac 
tion,  the  ancient  coach  rumbled  heavily  away 
through  the  dust. 

However,  the  heavy  wheels  had  hardly  made 
a  dozen  revolutions  before  they  were  at  the 
Watson  homestead,  which  was  the  place  near 
est  to  old  lady  Gordon's.  There  Sidney  called 
to  Enoch  Cotton  to  put  her  down  ;  and  get  down 
she  would  and  did,  in  spite  of  old  lady  Gordon's 
impatient  protest  that  there  had  been  no  time 
for  the  telling  of  news ;  regardless  even  of  her 
hasty,  half-contemptuous  offer  to  send  Uncle 
Watty  and  the  children  a  bag  of  flour.  Sidney 
had  her  own  ideas  of  dignity  and  self-respect; 
moreover  she  held  to  them  more  firmly  than 
prouder  people,  having  finer  ones,  often  hold  to 
theirs.  Yet  she  was  always  good-natured,  no 
matter  how  firm,  and  she  now  merely  laughed, 
as  old  lady  Gordon  drove  away  as  angry  as 
she  ever  thought  it  worth  while  to  be  over 
anything  save  some  interference  with  the  regu 
larity  and  the  perfection  of  her  meals. 

234 


Sidney  Does  Her  Duty 

Sidney  took  off  her  sunbonnet  and  hung  it 
on  the  fence,  and  let  her  hair  loose  and  twisted 
it  up  again,  while  having  her  laugh  out  before 
going  in  the  house.  There  was  not  a  grain  of 
malice  in  her  frank  shrewdness.  Adversity's 
sweet  milk  had  been  her  daily  drink,  ever  since 
she  could  remember.  Old  lady  Gordon  herself 
would  have  been  amused  at  the  good-humored 
account  of  her  own  starting  to  "  make  a  broad," 
could  she  have  heard  Sidney  telling  Tom  and 
Anne  Watson  about  it.  For  that  handsome  old 
pagan  had  a  wholesome  sense  of  humor.  But 
Tom  Watson  apparently  did  not  hear ;  his  miser 
able,  restless  eyes  never  turned  toward  Sidney, 
never  for  a  moment  ceased  their  fruitless  quest  of 
the  empty  big  road.  Only  a  pale  shadow  of  a 
smile  flitted  over  Anne's  white,  tense  face.  And 
Sicney,  seeing  that  her  efforts  were  wholly 
wasted,  soon  arose  to  go  on  her  way,  and  Anne 
went  with  her  to  the  gate  —  as  far  as  she  ever 
went  from  her  hopeless  post,  except  for  the 
breaking  of  bread  on  the  Sundays  when  there 
was  preaching  at  her  own  church ;  and  for  an 
hour  now  and  then,  on  prayer-meeting  nights, 
when  she  felt  that  her  own  supplications  alone 
were  not  strong  enough.  She  held  Sidney's 
large,  firm,  rough,  capable  hand  longer  than 
usual,  as  if  she  instinctively  sought  strength 
and  courage  in  clinging  to  it.  Her  clear  eyes, 
too,  were  full  of  a  silent,  unconscious  appeal, 
and  Sidney  said,  in  answer  to  the  look,  that 
she  would  come  again  the  next  day  and 
every  day,  if  her  coming  could  help  in  the 

235 


Oldfield 

least.  Anne  simply  bowed  her  head ;  she  did 
not  attempt  to  speak,  and  in  truth  there  was 
nothing  to  be  said.  She  made  no  mention  of 
any  inducement  to  Sidney  to  come ;  she  did 
not  think  of  it,  nor  indeed  did  Sidney.  Yet, 
when  Anne  did  think  of  it,  later  in  the  day,  she 
was  glad  to  send  a  large  basket,  and  Sidney 
was  more  than  glad  to  have  it  sent. 

That  night  Sidney  dreamt  of  Tom,  —  as  a 
good  many  people  did  after  seeing  him,  —  and 
the  thought  of  him  so  weighed  upon  her  on 
awakening  at  dawn,  that  she  hurried  through 
with  her  housework  in  order  that  she  might  go 
to  Anne.  But  she  had  only  the  earliest  morning 
hours  for  domestic  duties,  the  rest  of  her  time 
being  always  fully  occupied  with  her  profes 
sional  rounds ;  and  she  found  much  to  do 
every  morning  before  starting  out.  On  this 
particular  morning  there  were  unusual  affairs 
of  rather  a  pressing  nature.  Uncle  Watty  had 
discovered  a  bumblebee's  nest  under  the  mossy 
roof  close  to  his  bed.  It  was  never  the  way  of 
Uncle  Watty  to  submit  to  any  discomfort  which 
he  could  avoid  by  complaining,  and  he  was  not 
unnaturally  anxious  to  have  this  removed  with 
out  unnecessary  delay.  Sidney,  ready  and  re 
sourceful,  quieted  his  fears.  She  knew  —  so 
she  declared  —  just  how  to  get  the  bumble 
bee's  nest  down  without  the  least  trouble  or 
hurting  any  one.  As  soon,  therefore,  as  the 
kitchen  was  in  order,  she  bustled  into  the  room 
where  Doris  sat  sewing  behind  the  white  cur 
tain.  Sidney  put  the  broom  on  end  in  its 


Sidney  Does  Her  Duty 

accustomed  place,  and  began  rolling  down  her 
sleeves,  getting  ready  to  move  upon  the  citadel 
of  the  bumblebees.  When  a  thing  —  large  or 
small  —  must  be  done,  Sidney  was  not  one  to 
let  the  grass  grow  under  her  feet.  She  had 
reached  the  door  of  the  passage,  meaning  to 
climb  to  the  loft  and  to  awaken  Uncle  Watty 
as  a  mere  matter  of  precaution  before  begin 
ning  operations,  when  Doris's  voice  caused  her 
to  pause. 

"  I  haven't  had  a  chance,  mother,  to  tell  you 
that  Mr.  Gordon  was  here  yesterday  in  the  cool 
of  the  evening,  before  you  came  home.  He 
didn't  come  in.  He  only  went  into  the  gar 
den,"  Doris  said,  simply. 

Sidney  stopped  and  stood  still,  silently  gazing 
at  her  daughter. 

"  He  came  to  see  the  pretty-by-nights.  He 
said  he  had  never  seen  them  open  with  the 
falling  of  the  dew,"  the  girl  went  on,  like  a 
child. 

"  Anybody's  welcome  to  look  at  the  pretty- 
by-nights,"  responded  Sidney,  with  cautious 
non-committal  indifference. 

"  I  told  him  I  knew  you  wouldn't  care,"  said 
Doris,  more  confidently.  "  And  then  he  asked 
if  he  might  come  early  this  morning  to  look  at 
the  morning-glories.  He  thought  they  must 
be  lovely  —  such  big  ones,  red,  white,  and  blue 
—  all  over  that  side  of  the  house." 

"  They're  well  enough  in  their  place,"  said 
Sidney,  off-hand.  And  then,  carelessly,  after  an 
instant's  pause,  "  What  did  you  say?  " 

237 


Oldfield 

"He  said  he  was  coming  —  before  I  could 
say  anything."  Doris  thus  placed  the  respon 
sibility  where  it  belonged,  made  timid  again  by 
her  mother's  manner,  which  she  did  not  under 
stand.  "He  may  be  here  now,  at  any  moment." 

"  Well,  it  won't  hurt  the  morning-glories  a 
mite  to  be  looked  at,"  said  Sidney. 

She  stood  still  a  moment  longer,  turning  this 
unexpected  announcement  in  her  mind.  Then, 
without  another  word,  she  went  back  to  the 
kitchen  and  took  up  the  plate  containing  Uncle 
Watty's  breakfast,  which  she  had  left  on  the 
stove  to  keep  warm.  He  could  eat  it  cold  for 
once,  she  resolved,  as  she  passed  through  the 
room.  Doris,  humming  over  her  sewing,  and 
looking  now  and  then  down  the  big  road,  did  not 
see  what  her  mother  was  doing.  Strong,  active, 
Sidney  swiftly  gained  the  loft,  making  as  little 
noise  as  possible.  Uncle  Watty's  bedchamber 
was  a  corner  of  the  loft  cut  off  from  the  rest 
by  a  rough  partition,  and  she  approached  the 
door  of  it  with  noiseless  caution.  Uncle  Watty 
never  thought  of  locking  or  even  of  shutting 
it,  but  Sidney,  after  setting  the  breakfast  on  the 
floor,  inside  the  door,  now  closed  it  softly  and 
turned  the  key.  There  was  an  old  chest  sitting 
near  by,  and  this  she  managed  to  drag  across 
the  door  without  much  noise.  Then  she  lis 
tened  for  a  space,  with  her  ear  against  the  door, 
to  make  sure  that  Uncle  Watty  was  still  fast 
asleep,  and  to  consider  the  security  of  the  barri 
cade.  Satisfied  now  that  all  was  secure,  that  he 
could  not  get  out,  however  hard  he  might  try, 


Sidney  Does  Her  Duty 

she  went  down-stairs,  feeling  that  she  had  done 
her  utmost  for  Uncle  Watty  as  well  as  for 
Doris.  She  was  faithful  in  her  service  to  her 
husband's  brother;  she  had  accepted  him  as 
a  sacred  legacy  when  her  burden  was  already 
heavy  enough.  She  had  never  allowed  the 
fact  that  he  would  not  do  anything  for  his  own 
support  to  affect  her  regard  for  him,  nor  to 
lessen  her  efforts  to  provide  for  him ;  she  had 
never  minded  his  whittling,  nor  his  mis-set  leg, 
except  to  be  sorry  for  him.  And  yet,  notwith 
standing  all  this,  she,  with  her  shrewd  common 
sense,  saw  no  good  that  it  could  do  him,  or 
Doris,  or  anybody,  for  him  to  come  bumping 
and  stumbling  down  the  ladder  just  at  the  time 
when  the  young  gentleman  from  Boston  was 
likely  to  be  calling  upon  Doris.  Recalling  the 
likeness  to  his  game-making  grandmother,  which 
had  struck  her  as  so  marked  on  the  previous 
day — which  had  indeed  impressed  her  as  being 
of  "  the  very  same  cut  of  the  jib,"  as  Sidney 
phrased  it  to  herself  —  she  made  up  her  mind, 
then  and  there,  that  he  should  see  no  reason  to 
laugh  at  Doris  or  Doris's  kin,  if  she  could  help 
his  seeing  Uncle  Watty. 

Coming  now  into  the  room  where  Doris  still 
sat  quietly  sewing,  in  the  dull  brown  dress,  Sid 
ney  was  tempted  to  tell  her  to  put  on  the  blue 
gingham  which  Mrs.  Alexander  had  given 
her;  but  on  second  thought  did  not.  Secretly 
she  doubted  whether  any  other  color  would  re 
veal  the  soft,  pure  whiteness  of  Doris's  skin  so 
perfectly  as  the  faded  brown.  She  accordingly 

239 


Oldfield 

left  the  girl  to  her  own  devices,  and  contented 
herself  with  seeing,  with  even  more  than  the 
usual  care,  that  the  rising  sun  of  red  and  yellow 
calico  was  precisely  in  the  middle  of  the  bed, 
that  the  trundle-bed  was  quite  out  of  sight  under 
the  big  bed;  that  the  snowy  scarf  over  the  chest 
of  drawers  fell  perfectly  straight  at  the  fringed 
ends ;  and  that  the  best  side  of  the  rag  rug,  the 
sole  covering  of  the  rough,  well-scoured  floor, 
was  turned  up.  Finally,  she  hurried  into  the 
garden  and  gathered  a  great,  tall  bunch  of  blue 
larkspur,  and  put  it  in  her  best  white  pitcher, 
and  set  it  on  the  chest  of  drawers.  She  gazed 
at  it  with  her  head  critically  on  one  side, 
after  setting  it  down ;  and,  indeed,  the  vivid 
coloring  of  the  homely  flowers  against  the 
whitewashed  logs  was  a  pleasing  sight,  which 
might  have  gratified  a  more  exacting  taste 
than  hers. 

An  uneasy  remembrance  of  Kate  and  Billy 
suddenly  flashing  into  her  quiet  mind,  disturbed 
it,  and  sent  her  seeking  them  in  haste.  It  was 
unlucky  that  the  day  chanced  to  be  Saturday, 
otherwise  they  might  at  once  have  been  de 
spatched  to  school,  and  so  kept  out  of  the  way 
without  Doris's  knowing  anything  about  it.  Sid 
ney  was  not  clear  as  to  why  she  did  not  wish 
Doris  to  know  that  she  meant  to  keep  them 
out  of  the  way.  Her  daughter's  sensibilities, 
refined  by  nature,  and  super-refined  by  Miss 
Judy's  training,  were  a  long  way  beyond  Sid 
ney's  primitive  comprehension.  She  had,  how 
ever,  a  general  idea  that  all  very  young  girls 

240 


Sidney  Does  Her  Duty 

were  what  she  called  skittish,  and  most  of  them, 
consequently,  greatly  lacking  in  sound  common 
sense.  So  that  it  seemed  to  her,  on  the  whole, 
best  to  do  her  own  duty  as  she  saw  it,  saying 
nothing  one  way  or  another,  and  leaving  Doris 
alone.  Sidney  had  no  doubt  concerning  her 
own  duty.  In  the  circle  in  which  she  had  been 
reared,  the  young  man  who  failed  to  find  a  clear 
and  open  field  the  first  time  he  came  to  see  a  girl 
was  sure  not  to  come  again.  He  understood 
as  a  matter  of  course,  and  as  he  was  intended 
to  understand — when  he  found  any  of  the  family 
near  by  —  that  he  was  not  expected  or  desired 
to  come  again.  It  was  consequently  a  perfectly 
plain  and  simple  case  from  Sidney's  plain  and 
simple  point  of  view.  She  did  not  know  what 
Doris  thought  of  the  young  man ;  she  did  not 
care  what  the  young  man  thought  of  Doris.  She 
had  no  distinct  ultimate  object.  No  mother 
was  ever  farther  from  any  arbitrary  purpose, 
or  even  the  remotest  wish,  to  take  the  shaping 
of  her  daughter's  future  in  her  own  hands. 
Sidney,  honest,  strenuous  soul,  meant  simply 
and  solely  to  give  Doris  a  chance,  without 
hindrance,  to  shape  it  for  herself. 

Thus,  as  single-minded  as  it  is  ever  permitted 
any  woman  to  be,  Sidney  took  the  broom  from 
its  resting-place  behind  the  door,  and  fared 
forth  to  mount  guard  over  Billy  and  Kate. 
The  children  were  peacefully  at  play  in  the 
back  yard  under  the  cherry  tree.  They  had 
been  forbidden  to  touch  the  cherries,  which 
were  to  be  exchanged  for  shoes  at  the  store, 
R  241 


Oldfield 

and  they  only  glanced  wistfully  up  at  the  red 
dening  branches  now  and  then,  as  they  went  on 
with  their  harmless  game  of  mumble-peg.  Sid 
ney  turned  an  empty  tub  upside  down  and  seated 
herself  upon  it,  between  the  children  and  the 
house,  with  the  broom  across  her  knees.  It  was 
a  sight  which  they  had  never  seen  before,  this 
amazing  spectacle  of  their  mother  thus  sitting 
silent  and  idle  on  a  week-day.  But  children  do 
not  marvel  over  the  unusual  as  grown  people  do, 
and  after  a  glance  or  two  of  surprise,  these  two 
played  on  peacefully  until  they  heard  the  click 
of  the  gate  latch.  Then  they  made  a  dash 
for  the  front  yard  to  see  who  was  coming,  as 
they  were  accustomed  to  do,  and  as  Sidney 
was  fully  prepared  for  their  doing  now.  Keenly 
alert,  she  was  instantly  on  her  feet,  and,  rush 
ing  between  them  and  the  gate,  she  waved  them 
back  with  the  broom,  flourishing  it  and  using  it 
as  a  baton  of  command.  The  children  halted, 
staring  open-mouthed,  too  much  astounded  at 
first  to  make  a  sound.  And  then,  frightened  by 
their  mother's  strange  behavior,  they  huddled 
together  against  the  cherry  tree  and  broke 
into  loud,  terrified  wails.  Sidney,  disconcerted 
and  quickly  changing  her  tactics,  did  what  she 
could  to  silence  them  by  gentle  means.  She 
tried  to  soothe  them  in  whispers,  and  failing, 
finally  offered  to  bribe  them  to  be  quiet.  If 
they  were  perfectly  quiet  till  the  company  went 
away,  she  would  give  them,  so  she  whispered, 
one  of  Miss  Pettus's  cherry  pies. 

"  The    one    with    the  —  cross-barred  —  top," 
242 


Sidney  Does  Her  Duty 

sobbed  Billy,  intentionally  raising  his  piercing 
voice  several  keys  as  he  made  this  stipulation. 

Sidney  nodded.  The  boy's  shrewdness  in 
thus  taking  advantage  of  an  unusual  opportunity 
pleased  her.  Billy  would  never  let  chances 
pass  him  by  as  they  had  passed  his  poor  father. 
Kate's  behavior  was  always  a  reflection  of 
Billy's,  and  there  now  came  a  lull.  But  Sidney 
did  not  relax  her  vigilance  in  the  least,  and  still 
sat  immovable  on  the  tub  with  the  broom  resting 
on  her  shoulder  like  a  sentinel's  bayonet.  The 
children,  more  than  ever  wondering,  though 
silently,  did  not  return  to  their  game,  but  clung 
to  the  shelter  of  the  cherry  tree,  excitedly  peer 
ing  round  it  in  growing  wonder  at  their  mother's 
unaccountable  conduct.  The  little  group  now 
made  a  singular  spectacle,  one  so  very  singular 
indeed,  that  no  neighbor  could  think  of  passing 
without  inquiry.  Fortunately,  however,  no  one 
went  along  the  big  road  for  several  minutes. 
Meantime  Sidney,  sitting  bolt  upright  and  rigid 
on  the  tub,  with  her  back  to  the  house,  and  with 
her  eye  on  the  children,  and  the  broom  over  her 
shoulder,  ready  for  action,  followed  with  her 
keen  ears  everything  going  on  in  the  room. 
She  heard  the  deep  tones  of  the  young  man's 
dominant  voice,  and  the  soft  murmur  of  Doris's 
shy  replies.  She  knew  by  the  sounds  when  the 
two  young  people  went  out  of  the  house  to  look  at 
the  morning-glories,  although  the  vines  were  on 
the  other  side  of  the  house  and  quite  out  of  her 
sio;ht.  Thence  she  traced  them  with  intent 

O 

listening,  though    she    could     not    hear  what 

243 


Oldfield 

they  said,  to  the  trellis  over  the  garden  gate, 
now  richly  hung  with  the  mauve  beauty  and 
sweetness  of  the  virgin's-bower.  And  then 
into  the  garden  among  the  sunflowers  and 
-hollyhocks  and  columbine  and  larkspur  and 
heartsease  and  the  riot  of  June  roses,  common 
enough,  yet  gay  and  sweet  as  the  rarest.  Sidney 
could  tell  just  where  they  paused  as  they  wan 
dered  about  the  little  garden ;  now  they  were  look 
ing  at  the  sweet-williams,  now  at  the  spice-pinks, 
and  now  they  were  bending  over  the  bunch  of 
bleeding-heart,  with  its  delicate  waxen  sprays 
of  pink  and  white  hearts  —  strung  in  rows  like 
a  coquette's  cruel  trophies.  To  Sidney,  thus 
keenly,  alertly  keeping  track,  everything  seemed 
going  well ;  Billy  and  Kate  too  now  moved 
quietly  as  though  to  return  to  their  game  of 
mumble-peg,  so  that,  almost  reassured,  she  was 
about  to  lower  the  broom,  when  she  was  dis 
turbed  by  hearing  her  name  called. 

She  sprang  up,  motioning  with  the  broom, 
signalling  the  children  to  be  still,  and  turned  to 
see  the  doctor's  wife  leaning  over  the  fence,  and 
beckoning  to  her. 

"  What  on  earth  is  the  matter  ?  "  asked  that 
lady.  "  I've  been  watching  you  from  my 
porch  —  " 

She  broke  off,  falling  silent,  at  an  energetic, 
imperative  gesture  from  Sidney,  and  she  moved 
along  down  the  line  of  the  fence,  farther  away 
from  the  garden,  in  response  to  Sidney's  mys 
terious  signals. 

"  Hush.  Speak  low,"  said  Sidney,  bending 
244 


Sidney  Does  Her  Duty 

over  the  fence  and  speaking  herself  in  a  hoarse 
whisper,  "  Doris  has  got  a  beau  /^ 

"  You  don't  say  so ! "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Alex 
ander  under  her  breath,  but  not  as  yet  much 
enlightened  as  to  the  cause  of  the  extraordinary 
manoeuvres  which  she  had  witnessed.  "And 
who  is  it  ?  " 

"  Old  lady  Gordon's  grandson,"  said  Sidney, 
trying  vainly  to  keep  the  triumphant  note  out 
of  her  voice. 

The  doctor's  wife  involuntary  pursed  up  her 
mouth  ;  had  she  been  a  man,  she  certainly  would 
have  whistled.  "  Indeed  !  "  was  all  she  found  to 
say. 

"  And  why  not  ?  "  Sidney  flashed  out,  reply 
ing  to  the  look  rather  than  to  the  word.  "  Why 
not — I  ask  you,  Jane  Alexander?  I  have 
never  gone  around  bragging  about  Doris's 
pretty  looks  and  ladylike  ways,  which  good 
ness  knows  she  owes  to  the  Lord  and  to  Miss 
Judy,  not  to  me;  but  if  there's  another  girl  in 
this  whole  Pennyroyal  Region  that  can  hold  a 
candle  to  her  —  " 

"  Mercy  sakes  alive,"  gasped  the  doctor's  wife. 
"  What's  the  use  of  your  going  on  like  that  to 
me,  Sidney  ?  You  know  as  well  as  I  do  what 
the  doctor  and  I  have  always  thought  of  Doris." 

But  Sidney,  aroused  as  only  a  slight  — 
whether  real  or  supposed  —  to  a  favorite  child 
can  arouse  the  most  calmly  philosophical  mother, 
might  have  said  a  good  deal  more  in  support  of 
Doris's  smartness  and  sweet  disposition  —  these 
and  other  things  were  in  truth  on  the  very  tip  of 

245 


Oldfield 

ner  tongue,  when,  fortunately  for  the  doctor's 
wife,  a  sudden  noise  drew  their  attention  toward 
the  roof  of  the  house.  Uncle  Watty  had  at  last 
succeeded,  after  much  difficulty  and  several  un 
heard  shouts,  in  getting  his  head  out  of  the  garret 
window  close  to  the  chimney,  and,  now  catch 
ing  sight  of  Sidney,  he  indignantly  demanded 
to  know  why  he  could  not  open  his  door,  and 
peremptorily  ordered  her  to  come  at  once  and 
let  him  out.  She  went  flying  over  nearer  to 
the  window  and  in  a  low-toned  diplomatic  parley 
persuaded  him  to  wait  a  few  minutes,  finally 
even  inducing  him  to  take  in  his  head  until  she 
could  come.  It  was  only  a  momentary  interrup 
tion,  but  it  gave  Mrs.  Alexander  time  to  think, 
and,  when  Sidney  returned  to  the  fence,  still 
holding  herself  with  cold,  resentful  dignity,  the 
doctor's  wife  was  ready  with  a  softening  propo 
sition  inviting  Kate  and  Billy  to  go  home  with 
her  to  help  gather  cherries  on  the  shares. 

"Very  well,"  said  Sidney,  shortly.  She  was 
not  by  any  means  entirely  placated,  but  she 
never  rejected  a  good  bargain  merely  on  account 
of  some  private  feeling.  "  There's  no  need, 
though,  for  them  to  go  out  through  the  front 
gate.  They  can  just  as  well  get  through  this 
hole  in  the  fence.  It's  big  enough  if  they 
squeeze  tight,"  she  added,  still  on  guard. 

She  gave  the  children  an  assistant  shove  which 
carried  them  through  the  narrow  space  of  the 
broken  board,  hushing  them  to  continued 
silence  by  making  a  hissing  sound  through  her 
teeth. 

246 


Sidney  Does  Her  Duty 

"  There !  "  she  exclaimed,  under  her  breath, 
when  the  two  trembling,  bewildered  culprits 
stood  beside  the  doctor's  wife  in  the  big  road, 
casting  curious  glances  from  their  mother  to  the 
house.  "  Now,  Jane,  see  that  they  whistle  every 
minute  of  the  time  they  are  in  the  cherry  tree  ; 
or  I  won't  have  a  cherry  and  you  won't  have 
many,  and  these  children  will  be  drawn  into 
double  bow-knots.  Mind  now  —  don't  let  'em 
stop  whistling  for  a  single  minute. 

Mrs.  Alexander  nodded  understandingly  as 
she  took  the  children  by  the  hand  to  lead  them 
away;  nevertheless,  Sidney  thought  it  best  to 
make  sure  by  giving  the  broom  a  last  threaten 
ing  flourish.  Then  she  returned  to  her  post 
on  the  tub,  facing  the  house,  however,  during 
the  rest  of  the  hour  through  which  she  faith 
fully  fulfilled  sentinel  duty. 


247 


XVI 

THE  SHOCK  AND  THE  FRIGHT 

THE  children  thus  flown  like  birds  out  of  a 
cage,  Sidney  managed  to  get  Uncle  Watty  down 
the  stairs  and  off  to  his  seat  before  the  store  door, 
all  unobserved  by  the  young  couple,  who  were  so 
absorbed  in  the  bleeding-heart,  so  enchanted  un 
der  the  virgin's-bower,so  enthralled  by  the  hearts 
ease.  When  at  last  Lynn  Gordon  himself  was 
gone,  Doris  found  her  mother  quietly  at  work 
in  the  kitchen,  and  saw  no  trace  of  the  heroic 
measures  which  she  had  resorted  to.  Doris  asked 
timidly  why  she  had  not  come  in  while  the  vis 
itor  was  there,  feeling  instinctively  that  this  was 
what  Miss  Judy  would  have  done.  But  Sidney 
answered  quite  promptly  and  conclusively  that 
she  was  too  busy  to  waste  her  time  thinking  of 
strange  young  men,  so  that  Doris  was  more 
than  ever  abashed,  and  turned  silently  back  to 
her  sewing  and  to  her  thoughts. 

Sidney  now  directed  her  own  attention  to 
the  bumblebees.  She  went  to  the  front  gate  and 
called  Tom  Watson's  black  boy,  her  strong,  cleg,r, 
fearless  voice  ringing  out  suddenly  on  the  morn 
ing  stillness.  She  had  already  hired  him  to 
come  by  promising  to  mend  his  Sunday  jacket; 
if  he  would  help  her  get  rid  of  the  bumble- 

248 


The  Shock  and  the  Fright 

bees'  nest.  He  accordingly  appeared  at  once 
in  answer  to  her  call,  which  reached  him  in 
his  master's  stable,  and  he  carried  his  fishing- 
rod  in  his  hand,  this  also  being  a  part  of  the 
bargain.  He  handed  Sidney  the  rod,  and  tak 
ing  from  her  a  piece  of  rope,  which  she  held 
in  readiness,  he  went  up  the  rough  logs  at  the 
corner  of  the  house,  and  ran  over  the  roof  as 
swiftly  and  as  surely  as  any  simian  ancestors 
could  have  scampered  through  the  green  heights 
of  the  tropical  forests.  He  let  the  rope  down 
within  Sidney's  reach.  She,  meantime,  had 
fetched  a  jug  of  boiling  water  from  the  kitchen, 
and  when  she  had  tied  this  uncorked  vessel  to 
the  end  of  the  rope,  he  drew  it  up  again  till  the 
jug  came  close  under  the  eaves  and  immedi 
ately  below  the  dangerous  bunch  of  gray  gauze  ; 
whereupon  he  made  the  rope  fast  to  one  of  the 
curling  boards  of  the  mossy  roof,  all  according 
to  Sidney's  direction.  This  done,  he  sped  over 
the  roof  again  on  his  hands  and  knees  and  has 
tened  down  the  wall  for  safety,  knowing  what 
was  to  come.  Sidney  barely  gave  him  time  to 
drop  from  the  cornerlogs  to  the  ground, and  then, 
grasping  the  fishing-pole  firmly  in  her  strong 
hands,  she  gave  the  edge  of  the  roof  a  sharp, 
quick  blow.  The  bumblebees  flew  out  in  an 
angry  cloud,  but  Sidney,  the  dauntless,  stood  at 
her  post.  She  struck  the  roof  another  sharp, 
quick  blow — and  another,  tap-tap-tap,  like  some 
gigantic  and  most  industrious  flicker.  And 
forthwith  the  bumblebees  began  to  go  zip-zip- 
zip —  straight  into  the  steaming  mouth  of  the 

249 


Oldfield 

crater.  It  was  a  short  shrift,  and,  after  it,  a  sim 
ple  matter  to  punch  down  the  nest  itself  with 
the  fishing  pole  when  the  last  bumblebee  was 
drowned.  That  ended  Sidney's  interest  in  the 
programme,  but  the  negro  boy  was  still  curious, 
so  that  he  took  the  jug  into  the  middle  of  the 
big  road  to  pour  out  its  contents,  and  he  was 
much  gratified,  with  the  cruelty  of  his  age  and 
sex,  to  find  something  like  a  quart  of  boiled 
bumblebees. 

Sidney,  free  now  from  pressing  domestic 
affairs,  bustled  into  the  room  where  Doris 
sat  undisturbed,  singing  softly  over  her  sew 
ing. 

"I  must  go  by  Tom  Watson's  the  first  thing," 
Sidney  said,  putting  on  her  bonnet,  settling  her 
ball  of  yarn  under  her  left  arm,  and  beginning 
to  knit.  "  Anne  seems  to  be  at  the  end  of  her 
row,  poor  soul.  I  don't  believe  that  Tom  notices 
anybody's  coming  or  going.  I'm  sure  he  doesn't 
mine.  He  just  sits  there  with  his  awful  eyes 
wandering  up  and  down  the  big  road.  But  if 
it  comforts  Anne  the  least  bit  to  have  me  go, 
I'm  perfectly  willing  to  keep  on  trying.  Any 
way,  I'll  look  in  there  a  moment  before  starting 
out  on  my  regular  round." 

"  I  hope  you  can  get  home  early,"  said  Doris, 
shyly.  "  Mr.  Gordon  spoke  of  coming  again 
to-day,  in  the  cool  of  the  evening,  to  look  at  the 
moonflowers." 

Sidney  stopped  suddenly  in  the  middle  of  the 
floor,  just  as  she  had  done  earlier  in  the  morn 
ing,  and  looked  at  Doris  without  making  an 

250 


The  Shock  and  the  Fright 

immediate  reply.  She  took  off  her  bonnet  and 
shook  her  hair  down,  twisting  it  up  again  with 
extreme  tightness. 

"  Well !  I  reckon  he,  or  anybody  else,  can 
look  at  the  moonflowers  just  the  same  whether 
I'm  here  or  not,"  she  said,  dryly,  settling  the 
huge  horn  comb  with  emphasis.  Putting  on 
her  bonnet,  she  began  to  make  her  knitting- 
needles  fly,  as  she  moved  toward  the  door. 

"  Please,  ma'am,"  pleaded  Doris,  bashfully. 
She  was  smiling,  yet  quite  in  earnest,  in  her 
request. 

"  I'll  be  here  in  plenty  of  time,"  replied  Sid 
ney,  diplomatically. 

She  went  straight  across  to  the  doctor's  house, 
and,  calling  its  mistress  to  the  gate,  asked  in  a 
low  voice  if  she  would  be  so  neighborly  as  to 
keep  Billy  and  Kate  until  bedtime,  or  until  she 
herself  came  by  for  them.  Mrs.  Alexander  was 
surprised  ;  she  had  never  beforfe  known  Sidney 
to  ask,  or  even  to  accept,  any  help  in  the  care  of 
her  children.  She  had  always  been  scrupulously 
careful  to  avoid  troubling  any  one  with  them. 
For  this  reason  the  doctor's  wife  agreed  readily 
enough  to  keep  Kate  and  Billy  all  night,  if  so 
doing  would  oblige  Sidney  in  the  slightest.  She 
would  have  said  the  same  at  any  time,  but  she 
was  especially  glad  to  get  such  an  early  oppor 
tunity  to  make  up  the  misunderstanding  of  an 
hour  or  two  before.  So  far  as  she  knew,  Sid 
ney  never  had  actually  fallen  out  with  any  one ; 
but  Mrs.  Alexander  had  nevertheless  no  wish 
to  risk  such  a  calamity,  knowing  full  well  how 

251 


Oldfield 

dull  life  in  Oldfield  would  be  without  a  daily 
chat  with  Sidney.  And  then,  above  all,  she 
really  liked  and  admired  and  respected  her.  So 
that,  altogether,  she  was  quite  warm  and  even 
cordial  in  her  willingness  to  keep  Kate  and 
Billy.  She  told  Sidney  that  the  doctor  was 
away  on  one  of  his  long  trips,  and  that  it  would 
be  company  to  have  the  children ;  the  obliga 
tion  would  be  wholly  on  her  side. 

Sidney  then  went  on  down  the  big  road  well 
content,  her  knitting-needles  flying  faster  and 
faster,  as  they  always  were  under  any  unusual 
stress  of  thought.  She  nodded  to  Anne  Watson, 
calling  out  as  she  hurried  by,  that  she  would 
come  back  tg  see  Tom  as  soon  as  she  could  go  to 
the  store  to  speak  to  Uncle  Watty.  She  found 
the  old  man  sitting  in  his  accustomed  place 
on  the  goods-box  at  the  shady  side  of  the  store 
door.  She  paused  close  beside  him,  fanning  her 
self  with  her  bonnet,  after  she  had  taken  it  off 
to  let  down  and  twist  up  her  hair.  For  she  knew 
very  well  that  all  the  tact  and  art  at  her  com 
mand  would  be  needed  to  persuade  Uncle  Watty 
not  to  come  home  to  supper,  and  to  stay  at  the 
store  —  open  and  shut  —  till  bedtime.  Uncle 
Watty  was  never  the  one  to  give  up  his  own 
wishes,  if  he  could  help  it,  or  to  sacrifice  his 
supper  without  a  struggle. 

"  But  you  can  have  a  real  good,  comfortable 
supper  right  here,"  urged  Sidney,  lowering  her 
voice,  so  that  Mr.  Pettus  and  his  one  customer 
might  not  hear.  "  You're  mighty  fond  of  cheese 
and  crackers.  I'll  see  that  you  have  as  much  of 

252 


The  Shock  and  the  Fright 

both  as  you  can  eat."  She  hesitated,  and  then, 
seeing  that  she  was  to  be  pushed  to  the  limit 
of  her  resources,  and  knowing  from  long  expe 
rience  that  Uncle  Watty  would  exact  the  full 
pound  of  flesh,  she  added ;  "  And  I'll  tell  Mr. 
Pettus  to  give  you  a  glass  of  apple  toddy,  too, 
real  strong  and  piping  hot !  " 

"  Till  the  court-house  clock  strikes  nine,  then, 
and  not  a  minute  later,"  growled  Uncle  Watty. 

Sidney  was  quite  satisfied.  She  was  used  to 
getting  what  she  wanted  under  difficulties.  It 
always  made  her  happy  to  succeed  at  all,  and  it 
never  made  her  bitter  to  fail,  even  after  much 
trying  —  this  real  village  philosopher.  How 
invincible  she  was  that  June  day!  How  her 
knitting-needles  flashed  in  the  sunlight,  flying 
ever  faster  and  faster!  And  yet,  full  as  her 
thoughts  were  of  her  own  affairs,  she  did  not 
forget  or  neglect  Tom  Watson.  Indeed,  not 
one  of  the  day's  regular  engagements  was  for 
gotten  or  slighted  or  overlooked.  She  talked 
also  as  usual  about  almost  everything  under  the 
shining  sun ;  but  her  thoughts  were  always 
of  the  moonflowers  and  of  Doris  and  of  old 
lady  Gordon's  grandson. 

At  sundown  she  went  to  take  supper  with 
Miss  Pettus,  an  agreement  to  that  effect  hav 
ing  been  entered  into  upon  the  day  of  the 
truce.  But  she  said  as  soon  as  she  entered 
the  house,  that  she  must  leave  immediately 
after  supper,  as  it  was  absolutely  necessary 
for  her  to  see  Miss  Judy  before  going  to 
bed  that  night.  Miss  Pettus,  whose  curiosity 

253 


Oldfield 

was  excessive,  did  not  ask  what  she  must  see 
Miss  Judy  about.  No  one  ever  asked  Sidney 
questions  about  her  own  private  affairs,  freely 
as  everybody  always  questioned  her  about  public 
matters.  This  may  perhaps  have  been  one  of 
the  secrets  of  her  memorable  success.  Miss 
Pettus  was  merely  a  little  miffed  to  see  how 
absent-minded  Sidney  was.  What  was  the  use 
of  having  cream  muffins  when  Sidney  hardly 
noticed  what  she  was  eating !  Then  when 
Sidney  asked  to  be  allowed  to  leave  the  basket 
—  which  had  been  well  filled  for  the  children 
and  Uncle  Watty  —  till  she  came  for  it  the  next 
morning,  this  was  such  an  unheard-of  request 
that  Miss  Pettus's  curiosity  could  hardly  be 
held  in  leash;  yet  Sidney  went  her  way  without 
saying  a  word  in  explanation. 

Dusk  was  already  falling,  and  the  gathering 
clouds  in  the  west  hastened  the  gloaming. 
Sidney  passed  her  own  house,  taking  care  to 
walk  on  the  other  side  of  the  big  road,  but  she 
could  make  out  Doris's  slim  white  figure  mov 
ing  among  the  flowers,  and  she  also  recognized 
the  tall,  dark  form  near  by,  notwithstanding  the 
dim  light.  The  murmur  of  the  gay  young 
voices,  too,  musically  melted  into  the  scented 
stillness.  Sidney  did  not  know  that  she  was 
smiling  as  she  listened,  and  went  on  wonder 
ing  what  they  were  talking  about.  And  she 
did  not  ask  herself  why  she  was  glad  that  the 
honeysuckle  smelt  so  sweet  that  night,  and 
that  so  many  of  the  great  white  moths  were 
fluttering  among  the  moon  flowers. 

254 


The  Shock  and  the  Fright 

She  found  Miss  Judy  sitting  in  the  passage 
with  Miss  Sophia,  as  they  were  always  to  be 
found  at  that  time  on  a  warm  evening.  They 
were  talking  to  each  other  as  usual ;  that  is  to 
say,  Miss  Judy  was  talking  of  Becky,  and  Miss 
Sophia  was  listening,  with  the  never-flagging 
interest  and  complete  content  which  they  ever 
found  in  one  another's  conversation  and  society. 
Nevertheless,  they  were  heartily  pleased  to 
greet  Sidney,  and  Miss  Judy  was  particularly 
gratified  by  her  coming  in  just  at  that  mo 
ment.  The  little  lady  had  seen  Lynn  Gordon 
passing  up  the  big  road  early  in  the  morn 
ing,  and  —  quite  in  a  quiver  —  had  asked  Miss 
Sophia  if  she  thought  he  was  on  the  way  to 
call  on  Doris.  Of  course,  she  did  not  dream 
of  asking  Sidney  anything  about  it,  but  she 
knew  that  she  would  tell  her  without  being 
asked,  in  the  event  that  he  had  gone  to  see 
Doris.  And  Sidney  did  tell  her  at  once,  since 
the  telling  was  precisely  what  she  had  come 
for  —  that,  and  a  consultation  concerning  such 
future  steps  as  Miss  Judy  might  think  must 
needs  be  taken.  Miss  Judy  hung  upon  every 
prosaic  word,  coloring  it  with  her  own  roman 
tic  fancy,  blushing  rosily  in  the  sheltering 
dimness  of  the  passage,  glowing  with  the  new 
warmth  which  was  fast  gathering  around  her 

O  O 

gentle  heart.  It  was  a  bit  of  a  disappointment 
that  Sidney  did  not  say  what  the  young  gentle 
man  himself  had  said,  or  what  he  did  or  how  he 
looked  while  with  the  dear,  dear  child.  Miss 
Judy  almost  asked,  she  wanted  so  much  to 

255 


Oldfield 

know  everything  there  was  to  tell.  It  did  not 
occur  to  her  that  Sidney  had  not  been  present. 
It  did  not  occur  to  Sidney  that  she  could 
have  been  —  much  less  that  she  should  have 
been.  So  utterly  unlike  were  these  two  good, 
honest  women,  who  were  giving  their  whole 
minds  to  the  happiness  and  welfare  of  the 
girl  whom  they  both  loved  with  their  whole 
hearts.  Most  of  all  Miss  Judy  was  longing 
to  know  whether  Lynn  had  said  anything  of 
making  another  call.  She  could  tell  a  good 
deal  from  that,  she  thought  guiltily,  feeling 
herself  a  very  Machiavelli.  Yet  she  hesitated 
to  ask.  It  might  possibly  seem  a  little  indeli 
cate,  a  little  inconsiderate  of  Doris,  in  case  the 
young  gentleman  had  not  named  another  time. 

"  I  don't  think  it  will  rain  before  morning," 
she  said,  observing  Sidney's  glance  at  the  clouds. 
"  Young  Mr.  Gordon  does  seem  real  friendly," 
she  went  on  tentatively.  "  Perhaps  he  will  come 
again  —  sometime." 

"He's  there  now  —  twice  to-day!"  said  Sid 
ney,  triumphantly.  With  the  training  of  her 
profession  she  had  awaited  the  most  impressive 
moment  for  this  crowning  announcement. 

Miss  Judy  was  stunned ;  there  was  a  tremor 
of  alarm  in  her  voice  when  she  spoke,  after  a 
momentary  silence  of  frightened  bewilderment. 
"  Do  you  mean  to  say,  Sidney,  that  Mr.  Gordon 
is  at  your  house  —  with  Doris  now  —  to-night  ?  " 

Sidney  nodded  coolly,  trying  not  to  show 
the  complacency  which  she  could  not  help  feel 
ing.  "  Yes.  I  saw  him  in  the  garden  with 

256 


The  Shock  and  the  Fright 

Doris  as  I  came  down  the  big  road  —  on  the 
other  side." 

Miss  Judy  tried  to  think  for  a  space.  Then 
she  said,  delicately  but  uneasily,  "  Are  you  quite 
sure  that  Uncle  Watty  and  the  children  will  — 
will  know  how  to  do  the  honors  ?  " 

"  Well,  they  can't  do  any  harm  !  I've  taken 
care  that  they  couldn't.  They're  not  there  — 
not  a  blessed  one  of  'em !  The  children  are 
over  at  the  doctor's.  Uncle  Watty  is  down  at 
the  store,  and  he'll  stay  there,  too,  till  bedtime 

—  open  or  shut !  " 

As  Sidney  thus  told  what  she  had  done,  she 
tossed  her  yellow  head,  giving  free  rein  to  what 
she  honestly  felt  to  be  just  pride. 

Miss  Judy  sprang  up  with  a  smothered  scream. 
"Sidney  WcndalL !  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me 
that  you  have  left  Doris  —  that  poor,  poor  child 

—  to  receive  a  perfect  stranger  entirely  alone  ? 
Oh  —  oh  —  we  must  run  to  her.     What  will  he 
think  now?     The  other  was  bad  enough,  but 
this  can  never  be  made  right !     Run !  " 

She  sank  back  in  the  chair,  pressing  her 
hand  to  her  heart,  which  was  fluttering,  as  it  al 
ways  fluttered  under  agitation,  like  some  winged 
thing  trying  to  escape,  as  perhaps  it  was. 

"You  go  —  don't  wait  for  me,"  she  gasped. 
"I'll — explain  and  —  and  —  beg  your  pardon 

—  when  I  get  my  breath.     Go  —  go — go  /" 
Sidney  had  risen  in  blank  amazement,  which 

swiftly  changed  to  high  dudgeon  under  Miss 
Judy's  incoherent  reproaches.  From  the  agitated 
outburst  to  the  breathless  close  she  had  not  the 
s  257 


Oldfield 

vaguest  comprehension  of  the  cause  of  Miss 
Judy's  excitement  and  distress.  But  she  saw  that 
they  were  serious,  and  her  anger  vanished  forth 
with.  She  had  long  since  fallen  into  the  habit 
of  doing  whatever  Miss  Judy  wished,  even  when 
she  could  not  understand ;  no  matter  whether  it 
agreed  with  her  own  views  or  not,  and  wholly 
regardless  of  her  own  stalwart  opinion  of  that 
little  lady's  fastidious  ideas,  which  she  thought 
of  as  Miss  Judy's  "pernickety  notions."  In 
anything  and  everything  concerning  Doris, 
especially,  Sidney  always  gave  way  at  once 
without  an  instant's  demur,  and  she  did  so 
now,  as  soon  as  she  had  sufficiently  recovered 
from  her  amazement  to  comprehend  what  it  was  t 
that  Miss  Judy  wished  her  to  do.  Her  good 
humor,  too,  came  back  quickly;  it  was  never 
absent  long,  and  she  cheerfully  started  toward 
home  without  more  urging.  She  went  at  once, 
stepping  out  of  Miss  Judy's  sight  with  long, 
swinging  strides,  but  soon  slacking  her  pace, 
unconsciously  smiling  now  as  she  sauntered. 
A  woman  who  has  been  married  is  apt  to  smile 
at  an  unmarried  woman's  views  of  love  and 
courtship  and  kindred  matters.  Sidney  stood 
ready  to  defer  to  Miss  Judy  in  most  things, 
humbly  conscious  of  her  own  ignorance  and 
honestly  willing  at  all  times  to  confess  it. 
When,  however,  it  came  to  men-folks  —  laugh 
ing  silently,  Sidney  loitered  on  up  the  big  road, 
knitting  much  faster  than  she  walked,  for  her 
needles  flew  just  as  swiftly  and  surely  in  the 
darkness  as  in  the  light. 

258 


The  Shock  and  the  Fright 

Miss  Judy  shed  a  few  gentle  tears  in  the 
gloom  of  the  passage.  Her  first  distinct  feeling 
was  acute  distress  for  the  child  of  her  heart. 
Then  it  was  a  cruel  personal  disappointment  to 
have  her  plans  for  Doris's  social  advancement 
so  shockingly  upset.  But  presently  Miss  Judy's 
cheerful  spirits  began  to  rally;  the  tea  might 
perhaps  still  place  Doris  properly  before  old 
lady  Gordon's  grandson,  but  it  would  be  much 
harder  now,  owing  to  Sidney's  distressing 
thoughtlessness. 

"  Yet  she  is  not  so  much  to  blame,  after  all, 
poor  thing,"  said  Miss  Judy,  wiping  her  eyes, 
as  her  heart  began  to  beat  more  naturally. 
"  Sidney  was  not  brought  up  as  we  were ;  we 
are  bound  in  fairness  to  consider  that,  sister 
Sophia,"  pleaded  Miss  Judy,  as  if  fearing  that 
Miss  Sophia  might  be  too  hard  on  Sidney. 

Miss  Sophia  straightened  up  and  opened 
her  eyes,  surprised  to  find  Sidney  gone ;  but 
she  responded  as  usual  with  firm  promptness. 
Indeed,  when  she  had  thus  responded  several 
times,  more  and  more  decidedly,  as  Miss  Judy 
went  on  arguing  with  herself  and  thinking  that 
she  was  discussing  the  situation  with  Miss 
Sophia,  the  former  came  gradually  to  feel  that 
all  would  yet  be  well  with  Doris  —  as  Miss 
Sophia  believed  and  said. 

The  storm-clouds  piled  higher  and  blacker, 
and  the  lightning  flashes  lit  them  now  and 
then ;  but  Miss  Judy,  looking  out  the  open  door 
of  the  passage,  said  that  she  thought  the  cloud- 
bank  lay  too  far  south  for  them  to  get  a  shower, 

259 


Oldfield 

that  it  had  drifted  too  far  away  from  the  rain 
quarter.  The  darkness  deepened  fast,  how 
ever.  Sudden  gusts  of  wind  stirred  the  dust 
of  the  big  road,  and  set  little  columns  of  it 
whirling  along  the  darkening  highway ;  but 
there  was  still  nothing  to  disturb  the  little  sis 
ters,  sitting  peacefully,  contented,  close  together 
in  their  low  rocking-chairs.  Miss  Judy  was 
now  chirruping  quite  like  herself,  and  Miss 
Sophia  listening  and  nodding  alternately  in 
happy  content.  Nearly  asleep,  she  did  not  hear 
the  soft  rustle  of  Miss  Judy's  bombazine  skirt 
as  it  slipped  off  in  the  darkness. 

"  You  don't  mind,  do  you,  sister  Sophia  ?  " 
said  Miss  Judy,  feeling,  nevertheless,  bound  to 
apologize  in  respect  for  her  sister.  "  It's  too 
dark  for  any  one  passing  to  see.  And  it  does 
make  the  back  breadths  so  shiny  to  sit  on  them, 
no  matter  how  lightly  you  try  to  sit  down,"  she 
added,  as  if  she  could  sit  any  other  way,  dear 
little  atom  of  humanity ! 

Nine  o'clock  was  their  bedtime,  winter  and 
summer,  although  it  must  be  said  that  Miss 
Sophia  was  always  perfectly  willing  to  go  to 
bed  earlier.  That  night  they  arose,  as  they 
always  did,  on  the  solemn,  lonesome  stroke  of 
the  court-house  clock,  and  turned  up  their  little 
rocking-chairs  side  by  side,  with  the  seats  to  the 
wall,  tilting  them  so  that  the  cat  could  not 
make  a  bed  of  the  patchwork  cushions,  and 
thus  be  tempted  from  her  plain  duty  of  attend 
ing  to  the  mice  in  the  garret  and  the  rats  in 
the  kitchen.  The  chairs  being  thus  settled,  as 

260 


The  Shock  and  the  Fright 

if  for  the  saying  of  their  prayers  all  night,  Miss 
Judy  bent  down,  and,  taking  both  hands,  rolled 
the  cannon-ball  out  of  the  hollow  which  it  had 
worn  in  the  daytime,  and  sent  it  rumbling  into 
the  hollow  which  it  had  worn  in  the  night-time. 
Shutting  the  door,  she  then  dropped  the  wooden 
bar  across  it  as  a  mere  matter  of  routine  pro 
priety,  and,  after  this  was  done,  the  little  sisters 
be^an  to  undress  with  their  backs  to  one  an- 

O 

other.  When  they  were  at  last  quite  ready  to 
retire,  when  Miss  Sophia  was  in  bed  and  Miss 
Judy  was  on  the  point  of  ascending  by  means 
of  the  chair,  before  blowing  out  the  candle,  there 
was  some  polite  discussion  and  a  good  deal  of 
hesitation  whether  or  not  to  close  the  window 
at  the  foot  of  the  bed.  The  ultimate  decision 
was  to  leave  it  open,  Miss  Judy  thinking  this 
best  on  account  of  the  night's  being  so  warm, 
and  the  clouds  having  drifted  so  far  round  that 
there  appeared  little  likelihood  of  rain  before 
morning ;  and  Miss  Sophia's  thinking  that  she 
thought  as  Miss  Judy  did,  in  this  as  in  every 
thing  else.  The  window  was  accordingly  left 
open,  and  this  final  question  being  settled, 
the  little  sisters  laid  themselves  down  side  by 
side,  and  bade  one  another  a  formal  good  night, 
and  wished  one  another  pleasant  dreams,  and 
were  soon  sleeping  the  sleep  of  gentle  inno 
cence  and  of  sweet  peace  with  the  whole  world. 
But  while  they  slept  it  happened  unluckily 
that  the  clouds  drifted  back  to  the  rain  quarter. 
An  ominous  murmur  arose  louder  and  louder, 
coming  nearer  and  nearer ;  the  branches  of  the 

261 


Oldfield 

old  elm  suddenly  swept  the  mossy  old  roof,  and 
about  midnight  the  tempest  broke  in  its  utmost 
fury.  At  the  same  instant  two  little  nightcaps 
with  wide  ruffles  lifted  themselves  from  the  pil 
lows,  unseen  and  unheard  by  each  other  in  the 
darkness  of  the  night  and  the  crash  of  the 
storm.  Both  the  little  sisters  were  terrified. 
They  were  always  very  much  afraid  of  a  storm, 
and  this  one  was  terrifying  indeed.  But  love 
gives  courage  to  the  most  timid.  And  they 
were  very,  very  tender  of  one  another,  these  two 
gentle,  little  old  sisters.  Miss  Judy  thought  of 
Miss  Sophia's  rheumatism,  with  the  wind  furi 
ously  beating  the  rain  clear  across  the  room, 
almost  to  the  very  bed.  Miss  Sophia  thought 
of  Miss  Judy's  heart  trouble,  which  she  had  had 
a  touch  of  that  very  night,  and  she  dreaded,  for 
her  sister's  sake,  lest  the  lightning  begin  to  flash, 
as  the  thunder  boomed  nearer  and  louder.  But 
the  loving  are  the  daring,  and  each  forgot  her 
own  terror  in  fear  for  the  other.  At  precisely 
the  same  moment  the  two  little  old  sisters  began 
to  get  up  and  to  leave  their  opposite  sides  of 
the  high  bed.  Miss  Judy,  usually  much  quicker 
of  movement  than  Miss  Sophia,  now  moved  so 
slowly  in  order  not  to  disturb  her,  that  she  was 
longer  than  ever  before  in  reaching  the  floor  by 
way  of  the  chair.  Miss  Sophia,  on  the  other 
hand,  hurried  down  the  dwarf  staircase  back 
ward,  like  a  fleeing  crab,  fairly  driven  by  alarm 
and  her  loving  concern  for  Miss  Judy.  So  that 
—  still  utterly  unaware  of  one  another's  being 
awake,  much  less  astir,  such  was  the  uproar  of 

262 


The  Shock  and  the  Fright 

the  blast  and  the  downpour  of  the  rain  —  they 
crept  tremblingly  round  the  opposite  corners  at 
the  foot  of  the  bed,  in  the  blackness  of  the  room, 
with  tightly  shut  eyes,  with  outstretched  arms 
guarding  their  faces,  and  thus  ran  into  violent 
collision. 

Neither  Miss  Judy  nor  Miss  Sophia  could 
ever  recall  very  clearly  what  happened  after 
that.  The  neighbors  remembered  only  hearing, 
above  the  tumult  of  the  tempest,  blood-curdling 
screams  and  shrieks  of  fire,  and  murder,  and 
theft,  in  tones  which  none  of  them  recognized. 
The  Oldfield  people,  men,  women,  and  chil 
dren,  alarmed  and  panic-stricken,  sprang  from 
their  beds,  and  rushed  to  the  rescue  through  the 
storm  and  darkness  in  their  nightclothes.  The 
doctor  alone  was  dressed,  as  he  had  not  gone 
to  bed,  having  just  got  home  from  the  country. 
It  was  he  —  thus  already  afoot  —  who  led  all  the 
rest,  catching  up  his  lantern,  which  was  still 
lighted,  and  clubbing  his  umbrella  for  a  weapon 
as  he  ran,  as  much  alarmed  as  any  one  of  all 
those  who  were  rushing  to  the  rescue.  A 
single  kick  from  his  great  boot  shattered  the 
wooden  bar  and  burst  open  the  front  door. 
The  outcry  continuing,  led  him  and  those  who 
followed  close  upon  his  heels  to  the  bed 
chamber.  When  he  held  up  the  lantern, 
there  stood  the  little  sisters,  locked  together  in 
a  death-grip  and  quite  out  of  their  senses  with 
fright.  Their  gentle  little  hands,  which  had 
never  touched  one  another  nor  any  living  crea 
ture  save  with  kindness,  were  fiercely  clutched 

263 


Oldfield 

in  each  other's  gray  hair,  hooked  like  bird- 
claws  through  the  shreds  of  their  tattered 
nightcaps;  their  mild  eyes,  which  had  seen 
only  love  in  all  their  tranquil  lives,  were  still 
closed  against  the  first  horrors  which  they  had 
ever  encountered  ;  their  soft  voices,  which  had 
never  before  been  harsher  than  the  cooing  of 
doves,  now  shrilled  by  wordless  terror,  still 
pierced  the  roar  of  the  tempest  with  ceaseless 
shrieking.  Thus  it  was  that  all  the  horrified 
neighbors  found  them.  The  doctor  never  knew 
whether  he  was  laughing  or  crying  when  he 
picked  them  both  up  —  one  on  each  arm  —  and 
put  them  to  bed  as  though  they  had  been  his 
own  babies. 

Dear  little  Miss  Judy!  Poor  little  Miss 
Sophia !  That  night  comes  back  to  most  of  us 
with  a  smile  that  is  tenderly  close  to  tears. 


264 


XVII 

LOVE'S    AWAKENING 

BUT  there  never  was  any  open  smiling  over 
the  events  of  that  memorable  night.  Miss 
Judy  herself  regarded  what  had  happened  far 
too  gravely  to  allow  of  its  seeming  trivial  or 
amusing  to  any  one  else.  Indeed,  she  so  plainly 
shrank  from  all  mention  of  it  that  it  was  rarely 
spoken  of  at  all.  Everybody  saw  how  pale  she 
turned  whenever  it  was  mentioned,  and  how 
she  pressed  her  little  hand  to  her  heart.  So 
that,  as  no  one  ever  knowingly  gave  the  little 
lady  pain,  the  memory  soon  dropped  into  kind 
oblivion. 

The  only  reminder  of  it  was  the  more  fre 
quent  pressure  of  Miss  Judy's  hand  to  her 
heart,  which  had  always  been  a  weak,  soft, 
fluttering  little  thing,  and  a  new  paleness  of 
her  sweet  face  which  merely  made  its  delicate 
blushes  more  lovely.  The  shock  had  been  very 
great,  there  could  be  no  doubt  of  that,  and 
there  was  not  much  likelihood  of  her  forgetting 
it;  but  it  was  ever  Miss  Judy's  way  to  put 
painful  things  behind  her  as  quickly  as  possi 
ble,  and  to  turn  her  face  toward  swreetness  and 
peace  as  naturally  as  a  flower  turns  toward  the 
sunlight. 

265 


Oldfield 

And  she  really  was  very  happy  during  those 
first  days  following  the  fright.  Her  happiness 
always  came  at  second  hand,  as  perhaps  the 
purest  happiness  always  comes.  She  was  happy 
because  Doris  was  happy  —  young,  beautiful, 
joyous,  sparkling  with  health  and  spirits.  See 
ing  this,  Miss  Judy  found  nothing  lacking  in 
her  own  life.  And  then  she  was  so  delightfully 
busy  in  building  air-castles.  She  was,  to  be 
sure,  nearly  always  busy  in  doing  this,  but  she 
seemed  now  to  have  a  firmer  foundation  to 
build  upon  than  usually  came  within  her 
reach.  Doris  and  Lynn  met  at  her  house  on 
these  bright  summer  days,  almost  every  day, 
and  sometimes  twice  a  day.  Doris  came  at 
first  oftener  than  she  had  ever  come  before,  and 
stayed  longer,  on  account  of  her  own  and  her 
mother's  anxiety  about  the  effect  of  the  shock 
upon  Miss  Judy's  health.  They  knew  how  frail 
was  the  small  tenement  housing  Miss  Judy's 
quenchless  spirit.  They  almost  held  their 
breath  for  days  after  that  unmentionable  night. 
The  entire  community,  indeed,  was  alarmed ; 
even  old  lady  Gordon  thought  it  worth  while  to 
send  her  grandson  to  see  how  Miss  Judy  was, 
and  to  warn  him  against  saying  why  he  came 
lest  he  frighten  her.  Finding  Doris  with  Miss 
Judy,  the  young  man  naturally  went  again  on 
the  next  day  —  and  the  next  and  the  next  — 
without  being  sent.  Thus  gradually  it  came 
about  in  the  natural  order  of  events  that  Doris 
and  Lynn  met  daily  in  Miss  Judy's  house ; 
that  she  saw  them  constantly  together,  and  that 

266 


Love's  Awakening 

her  greatest,  loveliest  air-castle  thus  grew  apace, 
Every  day  added  to  its  height  and  its  beauty, 
till  its  crystal  minarets,  towering  through  rain 
bow  clouds,  touched  at  last  the  sapphire  key 
stone  of  the  arching  heavens. 

Doris  and  Lynn  knew  nothing  of  all  this. 
They  were  merely  drifting  —  as  youth  usually 
drifts  —  with  the  sweet  summertide.  In  those 
glowing,  fragrant  days  the  season  was  at  its 
greenest  and  sweetest.  The  crystalline  fresh 
ness  of  spring  still  lingered  in  the  dustless  air, 
which  was  just  beginning  to  gather  the  full 
fervor  of  the  summer  sunshine.  Nature  now 
was  at  her  busiest,  her  kindest,  and  her  crudest 
— glad,  blossoming,  bewildering,  alluring  — 
wreathing  her  single  relentless  purpose  with 
gayest  flowers  and  most  intoxicating  perfume. 
The  vivid  beauty  of  the  full  leafage,  gold- 
flecked  by  the  glorious  flood  of  sunlight,  was 
not  yet  dimmed  to  the  browning  of  a  leaf's  tip ; 
every  emerald  blade  of  grass  held  its  brimming 
measure  of  sap ;  the  rank  grass  under  foot,  the 
thick  foliage  overhead,  the  earth  and  the  air 
alike,  teemed  with  life  and  pulsated  with 
wings.  And  every  living  thing,  seen  or  un 
seen,  high  or  low,  was  being  swept  onward  by 
the  same  resistless  power  toward  the  common 
altar.  The  lacelike  white  of  the  flowering 
elder  covered  the  whole  earth  with  a  delicate 
bridal  veil.  Here,  there,  everywhere,  floated 
the  snowy  foam  of  myriad  blossoms  —  the  crest 
of  creation's  tidal  wave. 

And  the  young  man  and  the  young  maid 
267 


Oldfield 

also  went  the  way  of  all  innocent  healthy  young 
creatures  in  ripening  summer,  thinking  little 
more  of  the  titanic  forces  moving  the  world, 
than  the  birds  and  the  bees  and  the  butterflies. 
Lynn  was  wiser  and  older  than  Doris;  yet  he 
too  was  still  young,  and  still  far  from  any  real 
maturity  of  wisdom.  His  knowledge  of  life 
was  such  as  may  be  gained  by  a  student  who 
goes  through  a  great  university  with  a  definite 
ambition  steadily  before  him;  and  who  comes 
from  it  into  the  world  with  a  clear,  clean,  and 
upright  conception  of  what  a  man  who  earnestly 
means  to  hold  a  high  place  in  it  should  be  and 
should  do.  But  he  was  only  a  boy  grown  tall 
after  all,  and  he  had  never  seen  so  beautiful  a 
girl  as  Doris  was,  or  any  one  of  such  indefinable 
charm  or  of  such  ineffable  grace. 

He  looked  down  at  her  as^she  walked  by  his 
side  one  day,  going  up  the  big  road.  They 
took  daily  walks  together  nov;  without  objection 
from  any  source.  Only  dear  little  Miss  Judy, 
with  her  funny  notions  of  chaperonage  —  which 
nobody  understood  any  more  than  many  other  of 
the  little  lady's  dainty  whims,  and  which  every 
body  indulged  and  quietly  smiled  at,  as  at  many 
another  of  her  odd,  sweet  ways  —  would  ever 
have  thought  of  objecting.  It  was,  indeed,  an 
old,  well-established,  and  highly  respected  cus 
tom  of  the  country  for  young  men  and  young 
maids  to  walk  alone  together.  Seeing  them  do 
this,  the  Oldfield  people  merely  smiled  kindly,  as 
kind  people  do  at  young  lovers  anywhere — and 
sometimes  nodded  at  one  another,  thus  silently 

268 


Love's  Awakening 

saying  that  all  was  well,  that  this  was  just  as  it 
should  be.  The  very  fact  of  these  daily  walks 
alone  together  made  everything  perfectly  open 
and  clear.  Even  Miss  Judy's  rigid  scruples  on 
the  score  of  propriety  gradually  relaxed,  as  Doris 
and  Lynn  went  so  openly  and  frankly  from  her 
side  to  stroll  toward  the  graveyard,  day  after  day. 
From  time  immemorial  the  graveyard  had  • 
been  the  favorite  trysting-place  of  Oldfield 
lovers.  Perhaps  the  graveyard  of  every  far- 
off  old  village  always  is  the  lovers'  chosen 
resort.  It  is  certainly  nearly  always  the  most 
beautiful  and  the  most  retired  spot,  yet  it  is 
also  usually  close  by,  for  in  death,  as  in  life, 
humanity  holds  closer  together  in  the  country 
than  in  town,  and  the  dead  are  not  laid  so  far 
from  the  living.  And  then,  to  the  young  every 
where,  death  itself  always  seems  so  distant  that 
its  earthly  habitations  have  no  real  terrors.  No 
sadness  ever  comes  to  happy  youth  from  the 
mere  nearness  to  the  Eternal  Silence ;  nothing 
of  the  Great  Mystery,  vast  as  the  universe  and 
inscrutable  as  life,  ever  sounds  for  the  happy 
young  with  the  sighing  of  the  wind  over  the 
long,  long,  green,  green  grass  growing  only 
over  country  graves,  the  saddening  sound 
which  older  and  less  happy  ears  always  hear. 
None  of  that  unutterable  feeling  of  the  pain  of 
living,  and  the  peace  of  dying,  ever  wrings 
the  hearts  of  happy  lovers  at  the  moan  of  the 
gentlest  breeze  through  the  graveyard  cedars, 
where  it  seems  to  those  who  are  older  and 
sadder  to  moan  as  it  never  does  elsewhere. 

269 


Oldfield 

Certainly,  neither  of  the  two  young  people, 
sitting  that  day  on  the  rustic  benches  under 
the  tallest  cedar,  either  heard  or  thought  of 
any  of  these  sad  things.  Lynn  heard  mainly 
the  music  of  the  mating  birds,  and  thought 
mostly  of  the  exquisite  curve  of  the  fair  cheek 
almost  touching  his  arm.  It  was  so  satiny  in 
its  smoothness,  so  velvety  in  its  softness,  and 
so  delicately  tinted  with  the  faint,  yet  warm, 
glow  of  rich,  rare  red,  which  gleams  out  of  the 
deep  heart  of  a  golden  tea-rose.  And  the  glory 
of  her  wonderful  hair!  He  felt,  as  he  looked 
down  upon  her  radiant  head,  so  close  to  his 
shoulder,  that  he  had  never  realized  how  won 
derful  its  dazzling  crown  was,  until  he  saw  it 
now  with  the  wondrous  light  of  the  sunset  re- 
gilding  its  fine  gold,  and  with  the  south  wind 
ruffling  its  loveliness  into  more  bewitching  dis 
order.  As  he  gazed,  a  sudden  gust  leaped  over 
the  far  green  hilltops  and  lifted  the  wide  brim 
of  her  white  hat,  thus  revealing  the  full  beauty 
of  her  face. 

Lynn  saw  it,  with  a  sharp  indrawing  of  his 
breath.  A  yearning  so  keen,  so  deep  and  tender, 
as  to  cross  the  narrow  border  between  pleasure 
and  pain,  rushed  into  the  young  man's  heart. 
It  has  been  said  what  an  ardent  lover  of  beauty 
he  was.  The  feeling  which  swept  over  him  now 
was  the  yearning  that  every  true  lover  of  the 
beautiful  feels  at  the  sight  of  great  beauty:  the 
hopeless  desire  to  hold  it  forever  unchanged  — 
be  it  the  delicate  flush  on  an  exquisite  cheek, 
which  must  go  as  quickly  as  it  comes,  the  fresh- 

270 


Love's  Awakening 


ness  of  a  perfect  flower  which  must  fade  with  the 
rising  of  the  sun,  or  the  miracle  of  the  dawn 
which  must  soon  vanish  before  the  noontide 
glare.  Doris  seemed  to  him  Beauty's  very 
self,  to  be  worshipped  with  all  his  beauty-wor 
shipping  soul,  not  merely  a  beautiful  girl  to  be 
loved  with  all  his  human  young  heart. 

She  wore  that  day  a  dress  of  faded  pink  muslin, 
very  thin,  very  soft,  very  scant,  so  that  it  clung 
close  to  her  slender,  supple  form  —  a  poor  old 
dress,  so  old  that  no  one  could  remember  whose 
it  had  been  first.  The  bodice  opened  daintily 
at  the  throat  in  the  pretty  old  fashion  known 
as  "  surplice  "  to  the  Oldfield  people  ;  and  on  the 
glimpse  of  snow  which  drifted  between  the  mod 
est  edges  of  the  opening  —  where  the  lily  of  her 
fairness  lay  under  the  rose  of  the  muslin  rufHes, 
just  where  the  sweet  curve  of  her  throat  melted 
into  the  lovely  roundness  of  her  bosom  — 
there  nestled  a  little  cross  of  jet  held  by  a  nar 
row  band  of  black  velvet,  tied  around  her  neck 
and  whitening  its  whiteness  as  jet  whitens  pearl. 
Such  a  poor  little  ornament !  Such  a  poor  old 
dress !  And  yet  the  picture  that  they  made 
when  Doris  wore  them ! 

Looking  at  her,  Lynn  knew  well  enough  that 
he  had  but  to  loose  his  firm  hold  upon  himself 
ever  so  little,  to  love  her  as  he  might  never  be 
able  to  love  another  woman.  He  never  had 
seen,  and  never  expected  to  see,  such  beauty  as 
this  of  Doris's,  for  the  true  lover  of  beauty 
knows  its  rarity.  And  nothing  else  in  the 
world  so  appealed  to  him ;  no  charm  of  mind, 

271 


Oldfield 


or  heart,  or  spirit,  could  ever  quite  make  up 
for  the  lack  of  it,  notwithstanding  that  he  valued 
these  qualities  also,  and  held  them  higher  than 
thoughtless  youth  often  holds  them.  And  yet, 
despite  his  frank  recognition  of  the  truth,  he 
still  had  no  thought  of  allowing  himself  to 
love  Doris  Wendall.  Perhaps,  all  unsuspected 
even  by  himself,  the  instinct  of  the  Brahmin 
was  in  him  too ;  of  a  certainty,  what  is  bred  in 
the  bone  is  apt  to  come  out  in  the  flesh.  But 
if  this  were  true,  if  he  were  influenced  by  any 
feeling  of  caste,  he  certainly  did  not  suspect  it. 
He  was  not  vain,  with  the  common,  harmless 
vanity  of  most  young  men ;  nor  was  there  in 
him  any  unbecoming  pride  of  birth  or  position. 
He  thought  that  he  was  held  back  solely  by 
his  determination  to  let  nothing  turn  him  from 
his  life  plans.  He  was  wholly  sincere  in  believ 
ing  that  he  was  strong  enough  to  stand  firm,  to 
keep  himself  from  loving  Doris,  as  he  knew  he 
could  love  her.  The  thought  that  she  might 
love  him  had  never  crossed  his  mind.  The 
thought  of  being  able  to  win  her  was  as  far 
from  him  as  the  thought  of  reaching  out  his 
arms  to  gather  a  star  —  so  high  above  all  earthly 
things  had  his  beauty-worship  enshrined  her. 

"  I  wonder  what  you  are  thinking  about,"  he 
said  suddenly,  that  day,  with  his  eyes  still  on 
the  curve  of  her  cheek.  "  Of  late  I  have  begun 
to  believe  that  you  don't  any  longer  think  Miss 
Judy's  thoughts  exclusively,"  he  went  on,  ban- 
teringly,  in  the  freedom  which  now  existed 
between  them.  "More  than  once  I  have  seen 

272 


Love's  Awakening 

unmistakable  signs  of  thoughts  of  your  own, 
thoughts  which,  moreover,  were  not  in  the 
least  like  Miss  Judy's." 

Doris  turned  with  a  dimpling  smile,  and 
lifted  her  wide-open,  frank  brown  eyes  to  his 
darker  ones.  "  You  must  not  laugh  at  dear 
Miss  Judy.  I  never  allow  anybody  to  do  that. 
I  can  only  wish  my  thoughts  were  always  as 
good  and  sweet  as  hers." 

"I  haven't  made  any  comparison.  I've  merely 
mentioned  a  difference,"  Lynn  said,  laughing 
teasingly,  in  the  hope  that  the  rare  tinge  of 
color  might  linger  longer  on  her  fair  cheek. 

And  yet,  in  a  way,  he  had  been  quite  in 
earnest  in  what  he  had  said.  It  was  a  fact  that 
he  had  marked  a  great  change  in  Doris,  that  he 
had  come  gradually  to  see  that  a  simple,  sound 
strength  of  mind,  a  sort  of  wholesome  com 
mon  sense,  lay  under  her  gentle  purity  as  solid 
white  rock  lies  under  a  limpid  brook. 

"  Well,  it  is  quite  true,  I  suppose,  that  Miss 
Judy  never  thought,  in  all  her  life,  of  what  I  was 
thinking  of  just  then,  and  what  I  have  been 
thinking  of  a  great  deal  lately,"  Doris  said, 
slowly,  shyly,  as  if  approaching  a  difficult 
subject. 

"  And  what  is  that  ?  What  were  you  think 
ing  or  dreaming  of,  when  I  awakened  you  just 
now,"  the  young  man  asked. 

"  I  wasn't  dreaming  at  all.    I  was  wide  awake. 

I   was  wondering  how — "  with  an  effort,  after 

a  momentary  hesitation,  and  in  a  tone  so  low 

that  he  barely  heard,  "  how  a  girl  might  earn  a 

T  273 


Oldfield 

living  for  several  persons  —  for  a  whole  family." 
And  then,  after  a  longer  pause,  a  quick  breath, 
and  a  sudden  deepening  of  the  rare  red  of  her 
cheek,  "  So  that  her  mother  need  not  work 
so  hard." 

It  was  the  first  time  that  she  had  spoken  to 
him  of  this  secret  wish,  so  long  cherished.  She 
had,  indeed,  seldom  mentioned  her  mother  to 
him  in  any  manner  whatever.  The  reserve  was 
not  in  the  least  because  she  was  ashamed  of  her 
—  such  a  feeling  was  unknown  to  Doris.  She 
respected  her  mother  and  loved  her,  knowing, 
as  no  one  else  could  know,  how  good  a  mother 
she  was,  how  utterly  unselfish,  how  absolutely 
upright,  before  the  perpetual  necessity  which 
drove  her  to  earn  the  family's  bread  in  the  only 
way  that  she  knew.  With  her  whole  heart 
Doris  loved  and  honored  her  mother.  But,  alas! 
their  tastes  were  so  unlike,  their  thoughts  were 
so  different,  their  whole  lives  were  so  far  apart. 
And  neither  love  nor  honor  nor  any  other  of 
all  the  tenderest,  noblest  feelings  of  the  truest 
heart,  can  ever  bring  together  those  whom 
cruel  nature  has  set  forever  apart.  For  it  is 
one  of  the  mysteries  of  the  sorrow  of  living  that 
the  deep  rivers  of  many  earnest  lives  are  thus 
set  to  run  side  by  side,  and  yet  forbidden  ever 
to  mingle  from  the  beginning  to  the  end ;  from 
the  unknown  fountain  of  life  to  the  unsounded 
sea  of  death. 

Lynn  had  noticed  more  than  once  that  a 
shadow  fell  over  Doris's  gentle  spirits  whenever, 
on  their  strolls  together,  they  caught  a  glimpse 

274 


Love's  Awakening 

of  Sidney.  It  was  usually  in  the  distance  that 
they  saw  her,  going  up  or  down  the  big  road, 
with  her  long,  free,  fearless  step,  her  bonnet  on 
the  back  of  her  head,  and  her  knitting-needles 
flying  as  she  walked.  For,  notwithstanding 
that  Lynn  had  gone  to  her  house  almost  daily 
now  for  weeks  past,  she  had  managed,  by 
hook  or  by  crook, — as  she  would  have  expressed 
it,  —  to  hold  to  her  original  intention  of  keeping 
out  of  the  way,  of  giving  him  a  fair  field  and 
no  favor,  as  she  said  to  herself.  Yet  the  young 
man  had  gathered,  nevertheless,  although  he 
scarcely  knew  how,  a  tolerably  correct  impres 
sion  of  the  compelling  personality  of  Doris's 
mother.  Little  by  little  he  had  begun,  conse 
quently,  to  perceive  the  unusual  and  contending 
influences  which  had  made  this  beautiful  girl 
what  she  was ;  and  the  knowledge  caused  him 
to  wonder  what  she  would  become,  now  that  she 
was  beginning  to  be  herself,  now  that  the  strong 
forces  of  her  own  character  were  already  in  revolt. 
He  had  also  divined  something  of  Doris's 
dislike  of  her  mother's  means  of  earning  a  liv 
ing  ;  but  he  was  still  far  from  knowing  how 
strong  the  feeling  was,  or  that  it  had  grown 
with  her  growth,  gradually  and  steadily,  until  it 
had  taken  a  great  sudden  leap  —  thus  coming 
as  close  to  bitterness  as  her  gentle  nature  could 
ever  come  —  soon  after  she  had  met  himself. 
Nor  had  he  observed  that  day,  as  they  climbed 
the  hillside  to  the  graveyard,  that  Doris  had  seen 
her  mother  far  off  and  that  a  shadow  had  fallen 
at  once  over  the  brightness  of  her  innocent  talk, 

275 


Oldfield 

through  which  a  soft  gayety  often  shone  as  color 
gleams  out  of  the  whiteness  of  the  pearl. 

"  Do  you  know  any  girls  who  work  ?  That 
is  what  I  was  thinking  about,"  she  went  on 
timidly,  turning  her  eyes  away  and  looking 
toward  the  hills  enfolding  the  valley;  the  near 
green  hills  beyond  which  she  had  never  been, 
the  far  empurpled  hills  rimming  all  that  she 
knew  of  the  world. 

"  Do  you  know  any  working  girls  ?  "  she  re 
peated.  "  White  girls,  I  mean,  of  course.  I 
was  wondering  —  I  thought  that  if  so  —  perhaps 
you  might  know  what  kind  of  work  they  do. 
The  kind  of  work  that  might  be  done  by  a 
young  gentlewoman  of  good  breeding." 

It  was  quaintly  charming  to  hear  the  last 
thing  that  Miss  Judy  would  have  thought  of,  or 
dreamed  of  saying,  so  staidly  uttered,  in  that 
little  lady's  own  prim  manner  and  in  that  little 
lady's  own  old-fashioned  words.  Lynn  could  not 
help  smiling,  although  there  was  no  doubting 
Doris's  earnestness,  and  notwithstanding  that 
there  was  something  in  her  look  and  tone 
which  touched  him. 

"  I'll  have  to  think,"  he  said,  half  in  jest  and 
half  in  earnest.  "  No,  on  the  spur  of  the  mo 
ment,  I  am  almost  sure  that  I  don't  know  any 
working  girl  who  might  be  described  in  just 
those  terms.  There  are  doubtless  many  work 
ing  girls  who  are  ladies,  but  they  would  scarcely 
be  likely  to  call  themselves  by  such  an  antiquated 
name.  They  wouldn't  even  know  themselves 
by  so  antiquated  a  description." 

276 


v      r* 

f^W-1 

<-*  >->  r     ~V 


•  — N  .' 


•>- 


Love's  Awakening 

She  did  not  smile ;  silently,  gravely,  she  turned 
her  dark  eyes  on  his  face;  her  own  face  was  love 
lier  than  ever  in  its  wistfulness,  and  her  dark 
eyes  softer  than  ever  in  their  unconscious  appeal. 

"  But  I  am  in  earnest,"  she  persisted.  "  Have 
you  ever  known  any — any  girl  —  like  me  — 
who  worked  ? " 

His  eyes  were  grave  too,  now,  and  they  were 
looking  straight  down  into  hers.  "  I  have  known 
very  few  girls  of  any  kind,"  he  said  gently.  "And 
I  have  never  known  one  —  in  the  least  like  you." 

A  rosy  light,  bright  as  the  reflection  of  the 
sunset's  glow,  flashed  over  her  face  and  beamed 
from  her  eyes.  She  did  not  know  why  she 
suddenly  felt  so  happy.  She  bent  down  in 
sweet  confusion  and  gathered  a  handful  of 
the  long,  green  grass,  and  began  braiding  the 
emerald  blades  with  trembling  fingers.  Lynn 
watched  her  hands  in  the  false  security  of  his  own 
strength,  heedless  of  the  spell  which  they  were 
innocently  weaving.  He  followed  every  move 
ment  of  the  little  white  fingers,  so  delicately 
tapering  and  so  exquisitely  tipped  with  rose 
and  pearl;  and  he  saw — as  he  saw  all  beauty 
—  the  rosy  velvet  of  the  soft  little  palms,  and 
then  his  greedy  gaze  roved  further  and  fed  upon 
the  perfection  of  the  •  small  feet  which  neither 
the  poor  little  slippers  nor  the  long  grass  could 
hide.  The  intensity  of  his  gaze  unconsciously 
brought  a  sort  of  nervous  flutter  into  the  little 
hands ;  the  girl  felt  it,  although  she  was  not 
thinking  of  it,  and  her  hands  dropped  suddenly 
on  her  lap.  Her  gaze,  uplifted,  met  his  again, 

277 


Oldfield 

helplessly  entreating,  almost  with  the  look  of  a 
frightened  child  groping  its  way  through  the 
dark. 

"  But  there  must  be  girls  who  work.  I  must 
find  out  what  they  do.  I  must  learn  how  to  do 
it  too  —  whatever  it  is.  Won't  you  help  me  ?  " 

Her  lips  were  quivering  and  her  eyes  were 
full  of  tears. 

"  My  dear  child !  Dear,  dear  Doris !  How 
can  I  help  you  ?  You  to  enter  the  arena  to 
struggle  with  brutal  gladiators  for  the  spoils 
which  belong  to  the  strongest  and  the  fiercest  ? 
Help  you  to  do  this  —  you  soft,  lovely,  tender 
little  thing ! " 

He  did  not  know  that  love  thrilled  in  every 
tone  of  his  voice,  that  passion  barbed  his  words, 
winging  them  straight  home  to  the  girl's  awa 
kened  heart.  He  did  not  know  that  —  for  her 
—  love  all  at  once  shone  out  of  his  eyes,  daz- 
zlingly,  blindingly,  as  a  great  wide  door  opens 
suddenly  upon  a  chilly  twilight,  revealing  all 
the  alluring  warmth,  all  the  glowing  flame  of 
the  home  firelight  within. 

"  Dear  little  one,"  he  went  on,  blindly,  with 
infinite  tenderness,  "the  only  work  appointed 
for  one  like  you  is  to  make  a  paradise  out  of 
a  home.  A  woman  like  you  was  created  to  be 
carried  over  life's  rough  places  in  a  good  man's 
strong  arms.  There  is  only  one  place  in  the 
world  for  you.  Only  one  —  only  the  warm, 
sweet  corner  of  the  household  fire,  safe  behind 
the  heads  of  children." 

Doris  was  leaning  toward  him  with  her  trans- 
278 


Love's  Awakening 

parent  face  upturned,  and  he  saw  a  sudden  ten 
der  light  tremble  over  its  sweetness  as  dawning 
sunbeams  run  over  rippling  water,  and  — 
startled,  fascinated,  awed  —  he  watched  its 
deepening  wonder,  its  growing  radiance,  its 
wondrous  illumination,  as  the  white  curtain  fell 
away  from  the  lighted  shrine  of  a  spotless  soul. 
There  now  followed  an  instant's  tense  waiting, 
with  the  girl's  rose-red  lips  apart  and  a-quiver; 
with  the  starry  darkness  of  her  eyes  softly  aglow, 
as  the  evening  star  glows  through  the  warm 
twilight ;  with  her  exquisite  face  sensitively 
alight,  as  the  spring's  tender  new  leaves  stir, 
and  dimple,  and  shimmer  under  a  sudden 
shower  of  golden  sunlight,  —  and  then  swiftly  a 
shadow  fell,  as  a  wind-swept  cloud  covers  the  sun, 
sweeping  all  the  quivering  sunbeams  out  of  sight. 

Unexpectedly  as  a  swallow  darts  downward, 
Doris  bent  to  gather  up  the  forgotten  braid  of 
long  green  grass.  Lifting  it  with  a  queer  little 
laugh,  she  held  it  out  to  him  with  a  movement 
which  was  almost  mocking  and  wholly  unlike  her 
gentle  self.  Her  dark  eyes,  grown  suddenly  very 
bright,  seemed  actually  to  be  laughing  at  him. 

"  Is  this  the  kind  of  braids  that  the  mermaids 
wear  hanging  down  their  backs  ? "  she  said, 
lightly.  "  No,  I  remember  that  their  locks  of 
seaweed  flow  loose,  but  I  am  sure  that  they  are 
no  greener  than  this." 

He  took  the  braid  and  stared  at  it  unsee- 
ingly,  as  if  it  had  been  in  truth  some  such 
marvel  as  a  mermaid's  hair.  He  did  not  see 
that  she  hardly  knew  what  she  was  saying.  In 

279 


XVIII 

AN    EMBARRASSING    ACCIDENT 

THE  fluttering  of  Miss  Judy's  heart  still  kept 
her  from  fixing  a  day  for  the  tea-party,  anxious 
as  she  was  to  do  so.  Certain  small  domestic 
irregularities  also  interfered  with  her  plan.  For 
some  time  past  she  had  been  much  disturbed 
and  perplexed  by  Merica's  disappearing  at  un 
usual  hours  and  in  a  most  unaccountable 
manner,  so  that  her  simple  and  methodical 
household  affairs  had  lately  become  gravely 
disordered. 

On  the  morning  after  she  had  seen  Doris 
and  Lynn  returning  through  the  fragrant  dusk 
from  their  visit  to  the  graveyard,  she  felt  so 
happy  and  strong  that  she  resolved  to  give  the 
tea-party  on  the  following  day,  no  matter  how 
her  heart  might  misbehave.  It  was  really  silly, 
as  she  said  to  Miss  Sophia,  to  give  up  impor 
tant  things  merely  because  your  heart  tried, 
every  now  and  then,  to  jump  out  of  your 
mouth  and  sometimes  would  hardly  beat  at  all. 
It  was  so  silly  that  she  did  not  intend  to  do  it 
any  longer.  But  on  going  to  the  kitchen,  in 
order  to  put  her  plans  in  motion  at  once,  she 
was  dismayed  to  find  Merica  missing,  as  she 
had  been  very  often  of  late.  Miss  Judy  saw, 

282 


An  Embarrassing  Accident 

too,  that  the  fire  had  not  been  kindled  behind  the 
gooseberry  bushes ;  that  not  a  single  spiral  of 
blue  smoke  arose  above  the  thick  green  screen. 
She  consequently  began  worrying  in  her  mild 
way,  wondering  where  Merica  could  be,  and  what 
the  girl  could  mean  by  such  unheard-of  neg 
lect  of  duty,  especially  on  Monday  morning. 
Hurrying  around  the  house,  the  little  lady  went 
to  the  gate  and  looked  anxiously  up  and  down 
the  big  road.  No  one  was  in  sight  except  Tom 
Watson,  sitting  in  his  accustomed  place ;  but  the 
sight  of  him  always  brought  Miss  Judy  to  an 
humble  and  almost  frightened  sense  of  her 
own  mercies.  She  shook  her  head,  and  then 
bent  it  reverently,  making  with  her  little  hand  an 
unconscious  gesture,  which  called  up  thoughts 
of  the  sign  of  the  cross. 

Ashamed  to  be  worrying  over  such  a  small 
matter  with  Tom  Watson's  affliction  in  view, 
she  forgot  all  about  Merica,  and,  following  her 
instinct  to  do  something  for  those  who  were 
suffering,  she  went  into  the  house  to  hold  a 
consultation  with  Miss  Sophia  as  to  whether 
they  had  anything  which  they  might  send  to 
Tom  Watson,  since  they  could  do  nothing  else 
for  him. 

"  There's  that  pretty  tender  little  head  of 
late  lettuce,"  said  Miss  Judy,  tentatively.  "  I 
am  afraid,  though,  that  Tom  won't  care  much 
about  it,  but  I  can't  think  of  anything  else. 
And  it's  only  to  show  our  sympathy,  anyway," 
she  pleaded,  seeing  the  reluctance  in  Miss 
Sophia's  face  and  misunderstanding  its  mean- 

283 


Oldfield 

ing.  "  It  would  really  make  quite  a  picture  if 
we  were  to  put  it  on  mother's  best  china  plate, 
the  one  with  the  wreath  of  roses.  And  it 
would  please  poor  Anne,  whether  poor  Tom 
notice  or  not." 

So  busy  was  Miss  Judy  by  this  time,  bustling 
about,  preparing  the  little  offering,  that  she 
hardly  observed  Merica's  sudden  reappearance, 
and  did  not  think  to  hold  her  to  an  accounting 
for  her  absence.  Merely  telling  her  to  make 
haste  in  starting  the  fire  behind  the  gooseberry 
bushes,  so  that  she  might  run  across  the  big 
road  with  the  plate  of  lettuce  as  soon  as  pos 
sible,  Miss  Judy  thought  only  of  giving  pleas 
ure  to  her  neighbors.  When  the  rose-wreathed 
green  gift  was  ready  the  girl  said,  rather  sul 
lenly,  that  she  did  not  see  how  she  could  be 
taking  things  to  everybody  all  over  the  neigh 
borhood  and  watching  the  boiling  of  the  clothes 
at  the  same  time,  Miss  Judy  replied  gently, 
though  with  a  vivid  blush,  that  she  herself 
would  watch  the  wash-kettle.  This  was  an  un 
pleasant  task  which  the  little  lady  had  rarely 
attempted,  but  now  she  bravely  entered  upon  it 
without  flinching. 

The  white  mysteries  of  the  wash-kettle  were 
by  this  time  thickly  veiled  by  a  snowy  cloud  of 
steam.  Its  contents,  boiling  furiously,  lifted  big 
bubbles  dangerously  close  to  the  dry,  hot  edge  of 
the  great  black  kettle.  Miss  Judy  gingerly  took 
up  the  wet  stick  which  Merica  had  laid  down,  and 
timidly  tried  to  push  the  bubbles  away;  but  the 
harder  her  weak  little  hand  pushed,  the  higher 

284 


An  Embarrassing  Accident 

and  bigger  the  bubbles  arose.  Frightened,  and 
not  knowing  what  else  to  do,  Miss  Judy  knelt 
beside  the  steaming  caldron,  looking  amid  the 
smoke  and  steam  like  some  pretty  little  witch 
working  some  good  incantation,  and  tremblingly 
drew  one  of  the  blazing  brands  from  beneath 
the  kettle.  As  she  moved  the  brand,  a  foun 
tain  of  sparks  from  it  shot  upward,  to  come 
showering  down,  and  one  of  these  fell  upon 
the  biggest  and  whitest  of  the  bubbles.  Miss 
Judy  saw  this  as  it  settled,  and,  although  the 
kettle's  contents  were  an  indistinguishable,  foam 
ing  mass,  she  knew  instinctively  that  it  was  not 
one  of  Miss  Sophia's  or  one  of  her  own  gar 
ments,  which  had  been  burned.  She  sank  down 
on  Merica's  stool,  near  the  gray  border  of  spice 
pinks,  with  her  limbs  shaking  so  that  she  could 
not  stand,  and  her  heart  beating  as  it  had  never 
beaten  before  or  since  the  night  of  the  fright. 
When  she  could  move  to  get  up,  she  crept  over 
to  the  kettle  and  firmly  pushed  the  black  spot 
out  of  sight.  But  she  said  nothing  to  Merica 
about  it,  when  the  maid  returned,  more  sour 
and  sullen  than  she  had  gone  away.  In  silence 
and  dejection  Miss  Judy  went  back  to  the 
house,  and  tried  to  think  what  was  best  to  do. 
Ordinarily  she  turned  to  Miss  Sophia  for  advice 
in  trouble  or  perplexity,  resting  with  perfect 
trust  upon  the  counsel  which  she  thought 
she  received.  But  this  serious  accident,  which 
must  distress  her  sister,  she  now  locked  in  her 
own  bosom.  Had  Lynn  Gordon's  shirts  been 
ordinary  shirts  she  felt  that  the  matter  would 


Oldfield 

have  been  very  much  simpler.  By  severer 
economy,  she  thought  that  she  might  possibly 
have  been  able  to  buy  him  a  new  garment' 
although  it  was  hard  even  for  Miss  Judy  to  see 
how  the  economy  which  they  practised  could  be 
severer  than  it  always  was.  But  the  little  pen 
sion  for  their  father's  military  services  would  not 
be  due  for  another  six  months,  and,  moreover, 
Miss  Judy  would  not  have  known  where  or  how 
to  get  the  costly,  mysterious  garment  had  she 
had  the  money,  or  how  to  find  the  fine  tucks  and 
the  finer  embroidery,  which  she  had  admired  so 
greatly,  though  secretly,  of  course.  She  knew 
how  fine  the  needle-work  was,  because  she  her 
self  had  been  an  expert  needle-woman  in  the 
days  when  her  blue  eyes  were  stronger.  For 
a  moment  a  wild  hope  of  copying  the  burned 
shirt,  of  working  the  same  little  rim  of  delicate 
tracery  around  the  button  holes,  darted  thrill- 
ingly  across  her  troubled  mind ;  but  in  another 
instant  it  was  dismissed  —  wholly  gone  —  with 
a  sigh.  She  remembered,  blushingly,  that  she 
had  once  heard  Sidney  say  that  the  Queen 
of  Sheba  could  not  make  a  shirt  that  the  King 
of  Sheba  would  wear.  Miss  Judy  did  not  re 
member  ever  having  read  in  the  Scriptures 
anything  about  the  King  of  Sheba,  but  she 
had  confidence  in  Sidney's  opinions  of  a  good 
many  matters  which  she  felt  herself  to  be  no 
judge  of.  No,  there  was  plainly  nothing  to  be 
done,  except  to  darn  the  hole  as  neatly  as  pos 
sible,  and  to  tell  Lynn  the  simple  truth.  Luck 
ily,  Miss  Judy  had  reason  to  believe  that  the 

286 


An  Embarrassing  Accident 

injury  had  not  been  to  the  splendid,  embroid 
ered,  tucked,  and  ruffled  bosom.  She  blushed 
again  more  vividly — and  then  she  turned  very 
white  as  a  sudden  thought  stabbed  her  like  a 
dagger.  Ah,  the  poor  little  heart !  It  was 
fluttering  indeed  now,  and  beating  its  soft 
wings  like  a  caged  wild  bird. 

The  effect  of  the  accident  upon  Doris's  pros 
pects  —  that  was  the  dread  \vhich  suddenly 
struck  terror  to  Miss  Judy's  heart !  What  would 
the  young  gentleman  and  his  worldly,  critical 
grandmother  think,  when  they  thus  knew  that 
she  and  Miss  Sophia  were  aware  of  what  was 
going  on  behind  the  gooseberry  bushes  ?  Up  to 
this  crisis  the  means  by  which  Merica  earned  the 
larger  portion  of  her  wages  had  seemed  so  dis 
tinctly  apart  from  Miss  Judy's  own  affairs,  that 
she  had  felt  no  personal  concern  about  it,  beyond 
an  occasional  and  passing  embarrassment.  Now, 
however,  the  matter  became,  all  at  once,  widely 
different.  How  could  she  offer  Doris  the  dis 
respect  of  making  an  explanation  ?  Come  what 
would  that  must  be  avoided,  for  Doris's  dear 
sake,  let  the  cost  be  what  it  may.  A  few  gentle 
tears  trickled  down  Miss  Judy's  cheeks  as  she 
sat  patiently  darning  Miss  Sophia's  stockings, 
while  the  latter  rocked  and  nodded,  observing 
nothing  unusual. 

Many  fanciful,  impractical  schemes  flitted 
through  Miss  Judy's  mind,  rather  sadly  at  first, 
but  gradually  turning  toward  her  natural  hope 
fulness.  The  end  of  her  thoughts  now,  as 
always,  was  self-sacrifice,  and  the  sparing  of 

287 


Oldfield 

others,  her  sister  and  Doris  above  all.  If  the 
worst  came  to  the  worst,  she  could  get  the 
doctor  to  buy  a  new  garment;  he  would  know 
what  to  get  and  where  to  get  it,  —  he  would 
even  loan  her  the  money  if  she  were  forced  to 
borrow.  Meantime,  with  innate  optimism,  she 
was  hoping  for  the  best,  relying  upon  being 
able  to  mend  the  burned  hole,  which  might 
not  be  so  large  or  so  black,  after  all.  Miss 
Judy's  cheerful  spirit  could  no  more  be  held 
down  by  ill  luck  than  an  unweighted  cork  can  be 
kept  under  water.  When  she  laid  her  little 
head  beside  Miss  Sophia's  that  night,  her  brain 
was  still  busily  turning  ways  and  means.  If 
the  severest  economy  became  necessary,  her 
sister  still  need  not  know.  Once  before  (when 
their  father's  funeral  expenses  were  to  be  met), 
she  had  been  entirely  successful  in  keeping  the 
straits  to  which  they  were  reduced  from  Miss 
Sophia's  knowledge.  Fortunately  that  hard 
time  had  come  in  the  winter,  and  a  turkey  sent 
them  by  Colonel  Fielding  as  a  Christmas  pres 
ent  stayed  hard  frozen,  except  as  it  was  cooked,  a 
piece  at  a  time,  for  Miss  Sophia,  till  the  whole 
immense  turkey  had  been  eaten  in  sections  by 
that  unsuspecting  lady.  Miss  Judy  chuckled  in 
triumph,  lying  there  in  the  darkness,  remem 
bering  how  artful  she  had  been  in  keeping  Miss 
Sophia  from  observing  that  she  herself  had  not 
tasted  the  turkey,  and  of  her  deep  diplomacy  in 
merely  allowing  Miss  Sophia  to  think  it  a  fresh 
one,  every  now  and  then,  without  telling  an 
actual  fib.  It  was  warm  weather  now,  to  be  sure, 

288 


An  Embarrassing  Accident 

which  made  a  difference  —  and  poor  Colonel 
Fielding  could  send  no  more  presents,  but  the 
way  would  open  nevertheless,  somehow ;  dear 
Miss  Judy  was  always  sure  that  the  way  would 
open.  No  matter  how  severely  they  might  have 
to  economize  in  order  to  spare  Doris  a  great 
mortification,  Miss  Sophia  need  not  be  deprived 
of  her  few  comforts.  And  it  was  for  this,  to  spare 
her  sister,  that  Miss  Judy  resolved  to  remain 
silent,  much  as  she  valued  Miss  Sophia's  advice. 
In  the  darkness  of  the  big  old  room  a  little 
thin  hand  reached  out  and  softly  patted  Miss 
Sophia's  broad  back  with  a  protecting  tender 
ness,  full  of  the  true  mother-love. 

At  midnight  Miss  Judy  arose,  and  creeping 
cautiously  from  her  sister's  side,  noiselessly 
crossed  the  big,  dark  room,  a  ghostly  little  white 
figure.  It  was  not  hard  to  find  her  thimble, 
needles  and  thread,  and  her  father's  near-by  spec 
tacles,  even  in  the  darkness,  since  everything  in 
that  orderly  old  house  was  always  in  the  same 
place ;  and  when  she  had  found  them,  she  softly 
took  up  the  candle  and  matches  from  the  chair 
beside  the  pillow,  and  with  her  trembling  hands 
thus  filled,  she  stole  across  the  passage  toward 
the  parlor.  She  opened  the  door  as  stealthily 
as  any  expert  burglar,  and  closed  it  behind  her 
without  the  faintest  creak.  Then,  softly  put 
ting  down  the  other  things,  she  lighted  the 
candle,  and  shading  it  with  a  shaking  hand, 
looked  around  for  the  basket  of  rough-dry 
clothes,  which,  for  privacy  more  than  for  any 
other  reason,  was  always  put  in  the  parlor  over 
u  289 


Oldfield 

night  between  washing  and  ironing.  The  stiff 
ness  with  which  some  of  the  well-starched  gan 
ments  asserted  themselves  rather  daunted  Miss 
Judy  when  she  first  caught  sight  of  them.  Never 
theless,  she  went  resolutely  on,  and  soon  found 
what  she  sought.  She  blushed  as  she  gingerly 
drew  it  from  among  the  rest,  the  delicate  color 
tinting  her  whole  sweet  face,  from  its  pretty 
chin  to  its  silver  frame  of  flossy  curls.  Turn 
ing  the  shirt  over,  she  gave  an  unconscious 
sigh  of  relief  to  find  how  small  the  burned 
place  really  was.  Burned  it  was,  however,  and 
she  threaded  her  smallest  needle  with  her  finest 
thread  and  set  about  darning  it  then  and  there, 
with  infinite  patience  and  exquisite  skill.  As 
she  worked,  sitting  on  a  low  footstool  beside  the 
great  basket,  with  the  candle  flickering  upon  a 
chair  (such  a  pretty,  pathetic  little  figure !)  her 
thread  involuntarily  wrought  delicate  embroi 
dery.  While  she  thus  wrought,  she  wished  that 
she  knew  where  gentlemen  usually  had  their 
monograms  embroidered  on  garments  of  this 
description.  She  could  not  remember  ever 
having  seen  any  on  her  father's  —  and  she  had 
never  seen  anybody  else's,  she  remembered,  sud 
denly  blushing  again.  Yet  she  could  not  help 
feeling  a  little  bashful  pride  in  her  handiwork. 
She  even  held  it  up  and  looked  at  it  critically, 
with  her  curly  head  in  its  quaint  little  nightcap 
on  one  side,  —  like  a  bird  listening  to  its  own 
song,  —  before  putting  the  garment  back  in  the 
basket  exactly  where  she  had  found  it,  as  a  mea 
sure  of  precaution  against  Merica's  observing 

290 


An  Embarrassing  Accident 

any  change  and  gossiping  about  it.  Every  care 
must  be  taken  on  Doris's  account.  And  then 
this  being  secure,  Miss  Judy  blew  out  the  candle 
and  stole  like  a  shadow  back  to  her  place  by  her 
sleeping  sister,  and  lay  down  with  a  last  sigh  of 
relief ;  feeling  to  have  done  the  best  she  could 
for  her,  for  Doris,  and  for  Lynn.  She  did  not 
think  of  herself. 

With  her  mind  thus  temporarily  at  rest,  she 
soon  fell  asleep  and  dreamed  a  radiant  vision 
of  Doris.  There  was  some  new  and  wondrous 
glory  around  the  girl's  beautiful  head,  but  Miss 
Judy  could  not  make  out  what  it  was,  though 
she  gazed  through'  the  sweet  mist  of  her  soft 
dream  with  all  her  loving  heart  in  her  eager 
eyes.  There  also  seemed  to  be  some  wonder 
ful  little  white  thing  in  Doris's  lovely  arms,  rest 
ing  on  her  breast  as  a  bud  rests  against  a  rose  ; 
and  as  the  light  shone  brighter  and  brighter 
over  the  rose-clouds  of  the  silvery  dream,  Miss 
Judy  saw  that  the  rays  about  the  girl's  head 
were  the  aureole  of  motherhood. 

"  How  strange  our  dreams  are,"  she  saia  to 
Miss  Sophia,  smiling  and  blushing,  while  they 
were  engaged  in  the  usual  polite  conversation 
over  their  frugal  breakfast.  "  We  dream  of 
things  we  never  thought  of." 

"Just  so,  sister  Judy,"  responded  Miss 
Sophia,  who  never  dreamt  at  all  unless  she 
had  the  nightmare. 

But  the  feeling  of  causeless  happiness  with 
which  Miss  Judy  awakened  on  that  morning 
passed  by  degrees  into  a  renewed  sense  of  un- 

291 


Oldfield 

easiness.  The  sound  of  Merica's  irons  bang 
ing  in  the  kitchen  appeared  to  arouse  scruples 
which  had  merely  slumbered  through  the  night. 
Was  it,  after  all,  ever  right  to  do  wrong  to  one 
person  in  order  to  benefit  another,  even  though 
the  injured  might  never  know  of  the  injury? 
So  she  wondered  in  new  alarm.  It  was  the 
first  time  in  Miss  Judy's  simple,  gentle,  un 
selfish  life  that  she  had  been  fronted  by  this 
common  question,  which  fronts  most  of  us 
sooner  or  later  and  more  or  less  often ;  and  she 
knew  even  less  how  to  meet  it  than  do  those  who 
meet  it  more  frequently.  Deeply  troubled,  hope 
lessly  perplexed,  she  silently  debated  the  right 
and  the  wrong  of  what  she  had  done  and  was 
doing,  through  all  the  long  hours  of  that  peace 
ful  summer  day.  It  would  have  comforted  her 
greatly  to  have  asked  Miss  Sophia's  advice,  but 
she  felt  that  any  knowledge  of  the  accident, 
however  remote,  must  be  distressing,  and  she 
still  spared  her  in  this  as  in  everything  else. 

"  Don't  you  think,  sister  Sophia,  that  many 
of  poor  Becky's  mistakes  came  from  not  know 
ing  just  what  was  right  ?  It  isn't  always  easy 
for  any  of  us  to  tell.  We  can't  be  so  much  to 
blame  —  when  we  are  unable  to  see  our  way," 
she  said,  after  a  long  silence,  hanging  wistfully 
upon  Miss  Sophia's  reply. 

"  Just  so,  sister  Judy,"  responded  Miss  Sophia, 
with  such  decisive  firmness  as  made  Miss  Judy 
feel  for  the  moment  that  there  could  be  no  un 
certainty  ;  that  it  surely  must  be  as  Miss  Sophia 
said. 

292 


An  Embarrassing  Accident 

But  the  sight  of  Doris  and  Lynn  strolling  by 
on  their  daily  walk  set  the  balance  wavering 
again.  She  felt  the  constraint  in  her  own 
manner  while  she  chatted  with  them  over  the 
gate.  She  saw  the  wondering  and  somewhat 
anxious  gaze  which  Doris  fixed  upon  her,  and 
she  tried  to  laugh  and  speak  naturally.  But  in 
spite  of  all  that  she  could  do,  the  uneasy  sense 
of  wrong-doing  grew  steadily.  She  had  not 
before  fully  realized  how  fine  the  young  man's 
linen  was  —  till  she  guiltily  regarded  it  over  the 
gate.  Its  very  fineness  and  the  number  of  its 
tucks  filled  her  with  a  conviction  of  guilt  to 
ward  him.  She  was  strongly  tempted  to  call 
the  young  couple  back  and  make  a  clean  breast 
of  it.  Then  the  fear  of  some  possible  humili 
ation  of  Doris  held  her  from  it.  So  that  she 
went  on,  sorely  troubled,  still  turning  the  matter 
this  way  and  that,  till  a  sudden  thought  gave 
her  a  fresh  shock  of  fear.  When  the  young 
man  saw  the  darned  place,  as  he  was  bound 
to  do  some  time  or  other,  he  would  be  sure  to 
think  it  Merica's  doing.  There  could  be  no 
two  sides  to  the  right  or  wrong  of  allowing 
that  to  happen.  Quite  in  a  panic  now,  fairly 
driven  into  a  corner,  from  which  there  was  no 
escape,  Miss  Judy  sprang  up,  and  rushed  out  to 
stop  the  doctor,  who  chanced  to  be  passing  at 
that  very  moment. 

He  got  down  from  his  horse  and  came  up  to 
the  fence,  throwing  the  bridle  over  his  arm, 
always  willing  and  glad  to  have  a  word  with 
Miss  Judy,  no  matter  how  weary  he  might  bef 

293 


Oldfield 

He  saw  at  once  that  she  was  deeply  agitated, 
and  that  her  blue  eyes  were  full  of  tears.  A 
country  doctor  of  the  noblest  type  —  as  this 
one  was  —  is  the  tower  of  strength  on  which 
many  a  community  leans.  He  touches  most  of 
the  phases  of  life,  perhaps ;  certainly  he  corses 
in  contact  with  every  phase  of  his  own  environ 
ment.  He  is,  therefore,  seldom  to  be  taken 
completely  by  surprise,  however  strange  a  story 
he  may  hear.  Yet  Dr.  Alexander  now  looked 
at  Miss  Judy  for  a  moment  in  utter  bewilder 
ment  after  she  had  poured  out  hers;  his  thoughts 
—  astonishment,  amusement,  sympathy,  under 
standing,  and,  above  all,  affection — coming  out 
by  turns  on  his  rugged,  open  face,  like  rough 
writing  on  parchment. 

"  God  bless  my  soul !  "  he  said.  "  Who  ever 
heard  of  such  a  thing !  My  dear,  dear  little 
lady !  Why,  you'd  do  that  young  jackanapes 
the  honor  of  his  life  if  you  burnt  his  shirt  off 
his  back ! " 

Miss  Judy  blushed  and  showed  how  shocked 
she  was  at  such  loud  and  indelicate  mention  of 
such  an  intimate  article  of  clothing. 

"  But  I  am  really  in  great  trouble,"  she  urged 
gently,  her  eyes  filling  again.  "  If  you  would 
only  tell  Lynn,  doctor.  It  seems  an  indelicate 
thing  for  a  lady  to  speak  of  to  a  gentleman.  If 
you  would  only  break  it  to  him,  and  explain  to 
him  how  it  happened,  and  that  Merica  was  not 
to  blame  —  and  —  and  that  Doris  knew  noth 
ing —  nothing  in  the  world  —  about  Merica's 
business." 

294 


An  Embarrassing  Accident 

"  Of  course  I'll  tell  him,"  the  doctor  agreed 
heartily.  "  I'll  tell  him  every  word  that  you've 
told  me,"  he  said,  mounting  his  tired  old  horse, 
which  was  almost  as  tired  as  he  was  himself. 
"  And  let  the  young  rascal  so  much  as  crack  a 
single  smile,  if  he  dares ; "  the  doctor  added  to 
himself,  as  he  rode  off,  looking  back  and  carry 
ing  his  shabby  hat  in  his  big  hand,  as  long  as 
he  could  see  the  quaint,  pathetic  little  figure 
standing  at  the  gate. 


295 


XIX 

INVOKING   THE    LAW 

THAT  night  the  little  lady  slept  the  sweet 
sleep  of  a  tender  conscience,  set  wholly  at  rest 
by  a  full  confession.  Old  lady  Gordon  also 
rested  well,  after  having  taken  some  drops  out 
of  the  bag  hanging  at  the  head  of  her  bed,  thus 
settling  an  uncommonly  hearty  supper.  So 
that  neither  of  the  ladies  either  heard  or 
dreamed  of  a  drama  which  was  being  enacted 
that  same  night  under  the  dark  of  the  moon, 
and  which  threatened  to  turn  into  a  tragedy 
with  the  light  of  the  next  morning. 

It  was  true  —  as  has  been  said  before  —  that 
old  lady  Gordon  had  known  all  along  of  the 
trouble  brewing  between  her  own  cook  and 
Miss  Judy's  maid  of  all  work.  She  had 
also  observed  the  growing  fierceness  of  their 
rivalry  for  the  heart  and  hand  of  her  gardener 
and  coachman,  Enoch  Cotton,  but  she  had 
not,  even  yet,  thought  of  interfering,  since  the 
affair  had  progressed  without  the  slightest  inter 
ference  with  her  own  comfort.  She  had  merely 
laughed  a  little,  as  she  always  did  at  any  candid 
display  of  the  weakness  of  human  nature ; 
though  she  had  incidentally  given  Eunice  a 
characteristic  word  of  advice. 

296 


Invoking  the  Law 

"  Don't  make  any  more  of  a  fool  of  yourself 
than  you  can  help,  Eunice,"  old  lady  Gordon 
said,  with  careless  scorn.  "  You're  going  about 
this  matter  in  the  wrong  way.  Stop  all  this 
foolery,  all  this  quarrelling  and  fighting,  and 
stop  it  now  —  right  off  the  reel,  too.  And  I'll 
give  you  a  big  red  feather  for  your  hat.  One 
red  feather  is  worth  more  than  any  number  of 
fights,  —  for  getting  a  man  back." 

Eunice  thanked  her  and  accepted  the  present 
in  dignified  silence,  but  without  saying  what 
she  herself  thought  of  it  as  an  antidote  for 
man's  inconstancy  to  woman,  and  her  mistress 
had  no  means  of  knowing  whether  she  ever 
really  tried  it  or  not.  In  fact,  the  whole  matter 
passed  out  of  old  lady  Gordon's  mind  as  an 
unimportant  incident  which  had  amused  her  for 
a  moment.  And  there  was  nothing  to  recall  it, 
the  warning  which  she  had  let  fall  having  made 
Eunice  more  than  ever  cautious  in  keeping  out 
of  her  mistress's  sight  all  sign  or  sound  of  what 
was  going  on. 

Thus  it  was  that  the  danger  grew  quietly  and 
in  darkness,  utterly  unknown  to  everybody  ex 
cept  the  three  dusky  persons  most  closely  con 
cerned.  It  had  long  been  unsafe  for  Merica  to 
come  into  Eunice's  kitchen,  and  it  now  be 
came  dangerous  for  her  even  to  venture  inside 
the  back  gate,  when  coming  for  the  young 
master's  clothes  or  taking  them  home.  Eunice 
was  the  very  soul  of  frankness  with  all  save 
her  mistress,  the  only  human  being  of  whom 
she  ever  stood  in  awe.  She  accordingly  made 

297 


Oldfield 

no  sort  of  mystery  of  her  intentions  to  any  one 
else  ;  on  the  contrary,  she  told  Enoch  Cotton, 
in  the  plainest  language  at  her  command,  just 
what  she  meant  to  do  :  — 

"  Ef  ever  dat  reg'lar  ebo  darst  set  her  hoof 
over  dat  doo'  sill  asrin  !  " 

O 

And  Enoch  knew  that  she  meant  what  she 
said,  and  that  she  would  do  it,  whatever  it  was. 
The  only  doubt  was  as  to  the  meaning  of  "  ebo." 
The  term  may  have  been  merely  an  abbrevia 
tion  of  ebony  and  nothing  worse  than  a  slur 
upon  Merica's  complexion.  And  yet  it  can 
hardly  have  been  anything  quite  so  simple  and 
harmless,  if  only  for  the  reason  that  Eunice 
was  the  blacker  of  the  two  rivals  —  if  there  be 
degrees  in  blackness ;  and,  moreover,  Eunice's 
way  of  using  the  word  really  made  it  sound  like 
the  very  worst  thing  that  one  colored  person 
could  possibly  say  against  another.  At  any  rate, 
Enoch  Cotton  felt  that  the  crisis  was  come,  and 
he  warned  Merica,  as  any  honorable  man  —  re 
gardless  of  the  color  of  his  skin  —  stands  bound 
to  guard,  so  far  as  he  can,  the  girl  whom  he 
means  to  marry  in  the  uncertain  event  of  his 
being  able  to  escape  the  widow  who  means  to 
marry  him.  Merica  was  a  little  frightened  at 
first,  and  she  readily  agreed  to  Enoch  Cot 
ton's  elaborate  plan  of  fetching  the  young 
master's  clothes  to  the  althaea  hedge  every 
Monday  morning  at  sunup,  and  of  handing 
them  to  her  there  over  the  fence,  shielded  from 
Eunice's  argus  eyes  by  the  thick  dusty  foliage 
and  the  dull  purple  flowers.  The  girl  also  con- 

298 


Invoking  the  Law 

sented  to  her  lover's  waiting  at  the  hedge  every 
Tuesday  evening  at  sundown  to  take  the  clothes 
when  she  fetched  them  back  and  handed  them 
to  him,  under  shelter  of  the  leafy  screen.  Eu 
nice  saw  Enoch  Cotton  going  and  coming,  and 
knew  full  well  what  these  manoeuvres  meant; 
but  the  althaea  hedge  stood  directly  in  front  of 
her  mistress's  window,  so  that  Eunice  could  only 
bide  her  time,  in  masterly  inactivity,  bound  hand 
and  foot  to  the  burning  rack  of  jealousy.  Most 
bitterly  trying  of  all  was  the  fact  that  at  night 
—  and  every  night  —  while  she  was  still  busy 
in  ministering  to  her  mistress's  wants,  Enoch 
Cotton  nearly  always  disappeared,  and,  try 
as  she  would,  she  could  not  learn  whither  he 
went. 

In  the  rear  of  Miss  Judy's  garden,  close  to  a 
secluded  corner,  was  a  half-leaning,  half-fallen 
heap  of  buttei-bean  poles,  rankly  covered  with 
vines.  That  little  lady  called  it  a  bower,  and 
thought  it  very  pretty  indeed.  She  had  been 
somewhat  disappointed  at  first  when  her  butter- 
beans  ran  all  to  vines  and  did  not  bear  at  all. 
She  had  expected  a  good  deal  of  those  butter- 
beans  ;  they  had  been  so  nice  and  fat  and  white 
when  she  planted  them,  and  they  had  doubled 
out  of  the  earth  in  such  thick  loops  of  luscious 
whiteness  when  they  first  came  up.  She  had  in 
deed  told  Miss  Sophia  that  she  thought  there 
would  be  enough  butter-beans  to  exchange  for 
two  (and  maybe  three)  pairs  of  stockings,  which 
Miss  Sophia  had  needed  for  some  time ;  possibly 
there  might  be  so  many  that  she  herself  could 

299 


Oldfield 

have  a  pair.  But  when  the  vines  utterly  failed 
to  bear,  and  did  nothing  but  riot  in  rank  and 
tangled  greenness  over  the  bending,  falling 
poles,  Miss  Judy  consoled  Miss  Sophia  and  com 
forted  herself  by  observing  how  very  pretty  and 
romantic  the  bower  was.  And  when  she  ob 
served,  later  in  the  summer,  that  Merica  had 
formed  a  habit  of  going  to  sit  in  the  bower 
every  night,  as  soon  as  the  day's  work  was 
done,  she  was  quite  consoled. 

"  Sitting  there  all  alone  must  surely  tame  her 
in  a  measure,  poor  thing,"  Miss  Judy  said  to 
Miss  Sophia.  "It  would  benefit  all  of  us  to 
have  more  time  for  quiet  reflection.  Think 
of  the  difference  it  must  have  made  to  Becky  if 
she  hadn't  been  so  driven." 

Accordingly  Miss  Judy  was  delicately  careful 
to  keep  away  from  the  bower,  for  fear  of  disturb 
ing  Merica's  reflections.  Eunice  had  never 
approached  it  nor  even  suspected  its  existence, 
thinking,  when  she  noticed  it  at  all,  that  the 
green  tangle  of  vines  was  a  mere  neglected  heap 
of  butter-bean  poles.  Her  ceaseless,  fruitless 
search  had  heretofore  always  been  turned  toward 
the  dark  windows  of  Merica's  deserted  kitchen 
and  cabin.  And  thus  it  was  that  the  girl  in  com 
parative  safety  awaited  her  lover's  coming  night 
after  night,  under  the  dark  of  the  moon  or  after 
its  going  down,  as  the  savage  women  of  her  tribe 
must  have  awaited  their  warrior  lovers  in  the 
deepest  jungles  of  Africa.  Nevertheless,  Mer 
ica's  heart  was  the  heart  of  her  feminine  type  all 
the  world  over,  within  and  without  civilization. 

300 


Invoking  the  Law 

With  her,  as  with  all  her  kind,  to  love  and  be 
loved  was  not  enough;  the  other  woman  must  see 
and  know,  before  her  triumph  could  be  entirely 
complete.  In  vain  Enoch  Cotton  pleaded  and 
protested,  and  even  tried  again  to  frighten  her. 
Every  word  that  he  uttered  only  made  her  the 
more  determined  to  parade  her  victory  openly, 
in  utter  disdain  of  all  restraint,  in  unbounded 
contempt  of  all  concealment.  What  was  there 
for  her  to  be  afraid  of?  she  demanded.  Was 
she  not  younger  than  Eunice  and  better-looking 
and  several  shades  lighter  in  color?  And  was 
not  her  hair  ever  so  much  straighter  than  Eu 
nice's,  when  freshly  combed  out  on  a  Sunday, 
after  being  tightly  plaited  in  very  small  plaits 
and  carefully  wrapped  with  string  through  the 
whole  week?  Finally,  she  and  her  lover  came 
so  close  to  a  violent  quarrel  that  he  dared  not 
say  anything  more;  and  although  Merica  ceased 
urging  the  point,  she  was  fully  resolved  to  over 
throw  the  screen  of  the  althaea  hedge,  to  scorn 
its  protection,  at  the  earliest  opportunity.  This 
came  sooner  than  she  hoped  for,  on  the  evening 
following  the  accident  when  the  fatal  spark  had 
fallen  upon  the  wash-kettle's  biggest,  dryest 
bubble.  Enoch,  gravely  alarmed,  was  waiting 
as  usual  in  the  shelter  of  the  althaea  hedge,  but 
she  passed  him  boldly,  leaving  him  trembling 
with  fear  and  gray  with  terror ;  and,  marching 
fearlessly  up  to  the  kitchen  door  with  a  chal 
lenging  giggle,  she  thrust  the  basket  of  clean 
clothes  through  it  and  under  Eunice's  very  nose. 
Then  she  turned  deliberately  and  flaunted  off, 

301 


Oldfiela 

with  a  loud  laugh  of  scornful,  mocking  defi 
ance. 

For  an  instant  the  black  widow  was  daunted, 
overwhelmed,  dumfounded,  utterly  routed,  by 
the  brown  girl's  unexpected  and  brazen  audacity. 
She  could  do  nothing  at  first  but  stand  glaring 
after  her  in  dumb,  powerless  fury.  Enoch  had 
disappeared  as  though  he  had  sunk  into  the 
earth;  as  more  self-possessed  and  more  coura 
geous  men  have  done  under  similar  circum 
stances.  Eunice,  thus  left  alone,  could  only 
gather  her  self-possession  gradually,  as  best  she 
could,  and  try  to  think,  and  think,  and  think. 
She  still  kept  perfectly  quiet;  there  was  not  one 
outward  sign  of  the  turmoil  of  her  fierce  spirit. 
She  thought  and  waited  till  night  came  on,  and 
until  her  mistress  had  gone  to  bed,  and  even 
until  she  felt  sure  that  old  lady  Gordon  was 
sound  asleep.  And  then,  led  by  the  blind  in 
stinct  which  leads  the  wild  animal  through  the 
trackless  forest  in  search  of  its  mate,  Eunice 
stealthily  opened  the  door  of  her  solitary  cabin, 
and  noiselessly  went  forth.  She  crossed  the 
shadowed  orchard  through  the  soundless  dark 
ness,  a  black  and  terrible  shape  of  vengeance, 
and  crept  softly,  her  bare,  heavy  feet  padding 
like  the  paws  of  a  tiger,  on  and  on,  straight  to 
the  bower. 

What  happened  then  only  the  rivals  ever 
knew.  Enoch  Cotton  himself  did  not  know. 
He  fled  at  the  first  onslaught,  as  braver  and 
whiter  men  have  done  under  the  same  desper 
ate  and  hopeless  conditions;  he  —  and  they  — 

302 


Invoking  the  Law 

could  do  nothing  else ;  could  not  prevent  the 
conflict,  and  could  not  take  part.  Enoch  could 
only  take  refuge  in  instantaneous  and  wordless 
flight. 

Neither  Eunice  nor  Merica  had  ever  a  word 
to  say  of  what  transpired  after  Enoch  was  gone 
and  they  were  left  alone  to  have  their  wild, 
furious  will  of  each  other.  The  wrecked  bower, 
of  which  hardly  one  pole  remained  upon  another 
or  one  vine  clung  untorn  from  the  others,  silently 
told  a  part  of  the  story.  Eunice's  face  looked  like 
a  red  map  of  darkest  Africa,  and  Merica's  face 
was  much  mottled  by  deep  blue  bruises;  Eunice 
limped  about  her  work  on  the  following  morn 
ing,  and  Merica  cooked  breakfast  with  one  hand, 
having  the  other  in  a  sling.  And  still,  oddly 
enough,  neither  Eunice  nor  Merica  bore  herself 
quite  as  the  victorious  nor  yet  quite  as  the  van 
quished.  There  was,  in  truth,  an  air  of  tense  un 
certainty  on  both  sides.  Nowadays,  everybody 
would  know  what  was  to  follow  under  such  cir 
cumstances;  both  sides  nowadays  would  make 
instantaneous  and  vociferous  appeal  to  the  law 
as  soon  as  the  court  was  open.  But  things  were 
different  then,  and  this  special  case  was  pecul 
iarly  complicated.  Eunice  was  a  slave  and  had 
consequently  no  clearly  discernible  individual 
rights  or  privileges  under  the  law.  Merica  on 
the  other  hand  was  free,  and  this  fact,  while  plac 
ing  her  socially  far  beneath  Eunice,  gave  her, 
nevertheless,  certain  rights  before  the  courts 
which  her  rival  as  a  slave  could  not  enjoy.  Ac 
cordingly  it  was  with  pride  and  satisfaction  un- 

303 


Oldfield 

speakable  that  Merica  set  out,  unobserved,  soon 
after  breakfast,  to  do  what  Eunice  fully  expected 
her  to  do,  which  was,  to  swear  out  a  warrant  for 
Eunice's  arrest.  This  legal  formula  was,  how 
ever,  known  to  Eunice  and  to  Merica,  as  it  is 
known  to  most  litigants  of  their  race  to-day,  as 
a  "  have-his-carcass,"  which  sounds  to  be  a  much 
larger  and  a  much  graver  thing.  Having,  then, 
seen  this  document  safe  in  the  constable's  hand, 
and  having  been  duly  assured  of  its  prompt  ser 
vice,  Merica  went  home  as  quietly  as  she  had 
come  away,  and  slid  unseen  through  a  hole  in 
the  fence,  soothed  by  the  completeness  of  the 
legal  victory  which  she  foresaw,  and  which  could 
not  fail  to  make  her  the  admired  and  envied 
of  all  her  race,  which  then  found  —  as  it  still 
finds  —  a  strange  distinction  in  any  sort  of 
legal  recognition,  either  good  or  bad. 

The  officer  nevertheless  took  his  own  time 
in  serving  the  warrant.  It  was  not  the  Oldfield 
way  to  hurry  over  the  doing  of  anything.  More 
over,  he  had,  perhaps,  had  a  rather  wide  expe 
rience  of  colored  quarrels,  notwithstanding  the 
fact  that  they  were  brought  into  court  much  more 
rarely  at  that  period  than  they  have  been  since. 
And  then,  no  one,  however  daring  or  energetic, 
ever  hastened  under  any  circumstances  to  inter 
fere  with  the  old  lady  Gordon's  affairs.  Was  it 
not  known  —  as  has  been  related  —  that  when 
Alvarado  himself  dashed  along  the  big  road 
and  everybody  else  drove  into  the  fence-corner 
till  he  went  by,  old  lady  Gordon  always  kept 
straight  along  the  middle  of  the  big  road,  and 

3°4 


Invoking  the  Law 

it  was  Alvarado  that  went  round.  Bearing  this 
recollection  in  mind,  the  constable  strolled  very 
slowly  down  the  highway  toward  the  Gordon 
place,  and  he  was  glad  to  catch  sight  of  Eunice 
in  the  garden,  gathering  vegetables  for  dinner. 
It  was  better  than  finding  her  nearer  her  mis 
tress.  He  laid  his  hands  on  the  top  of  the  garden 
fence  and  swung  himself  over  the  pickets. 

"  Good  morning,  Eunice,"  he  said,  walking 
toward  her  between  the  tall  rows  of  yellow- 
flowering  okra,  from  which  she  was  picking 
tender  green  pods,  for  a  delicious  soup  which 
only  herself  knew  the  recipe  for. 

"  Good  morning,  Mr.  Jim,"  responded  Eunice, 
calmly.  She  knew  at  once  what  he  had  come 
for.  There  was  a  nice  distinction  in  her  call 
ing  him  "  Mr.  Jim,"  rather  than  "  Marse  Jim," 
a  subtle  social  distinction  which  was  quite  as 
clear  to  the  constable  as  to  herself,  and  one 
which  he  did  not  like. 

"  I've  got  a  warrant  here  for  your  arrest  for 
attempted  murder,"  he  accordingly  said  some 
what  less  mildly.  "  You'll  have  to  come  along 
with  me  to  jail." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  answered  Eunice,  respectfully,  but 
adding  calmly,  as  if  stating  an  accepted  and  un 
alterable  fact :  "  Yes,  sir,  but  in  course  I'll  have  to 
ask  Miss  Frances  first.  I  can't  stop  a-gather- 
ing  her  vegetables  while  the  dew's  on  'em  — 
lessen  she  say  so.  You  know  that,  Mr.  Jim, 
just  as  well  as  I  do.  Miss  Frances's  vegetables 
ain't  to  be  left  a-layin'  round  to  swivel  in  the 
sun  —  no,  sir,  they  ain't !  " 

x  3°5 


Oldfield 

The  officer  hesitated ;  he  took  off  his  rough 
straw  hat,  and  looked  for  a  moment  as  if  he 
meant  to  scratch  his  head.  But  remembering 
the  dignity  of  office,  he  fanned  himself  instead. 
"Well,  come  on  up  to  the  house,  then,  and  I'll 
speak  to  your  mistress,"  he  said,  with  more 
composure  than  he  felt. 

They  turned  toward  the  house,  the  officer 
leading  the  way,  and  Eunice  walking  in  her 
proper  place  behind  him,  carrying  in  her  large, 
clean,  white  apron  the  okra,  the  beets,  the 
cucumbers,  and  tomatoes,  and  all  the  other 
fresh  and  good,  green  and  red  things  which  she 
had  already  gathered  for  the  daily  noontide 
feast. 

Old  lady  Gordon's  keen  eyes  caught  a  glimpse 
of  the  constable  and  the  cook  a  long  way  off; 
and  she  hailed  them  sharply  as  soon  as  they  were 
within  hearing :  "  What's  this  ?  What  are  you 
doing,  Eunice?  What  are  you  here  for,  Jim, 
at  this  time  of  day  ?  " 

The  officer,  a  good-looking,  good-humored 
young  giant,  bared  his  head  with  an  em 
barrassed  smile.  He  made  a  brief  explanation, 
turning  his  hat  in  his  awkward  hands,  and  rest 
ing  his  huge  bulk  first  on  one  foot  and  then 
on  the  other. 

Old  lady  Gordon  hardly  allowed  him  to 
finish  what  he  found  to  say,  which  was  very 
little.  "  Now,  what's  the  use  of  your  telling 
me  any  such  nonsense  as  that,  Jim  Slocum  ? 
You  know  I'm  not  going  to  let  you  come  here, 
interfering  with  my  cook's  getting  my  dinner." 

306 


Invoking  the  Law 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  said  Jim,  deferentially.  "  I  do 
hate  to  inconvenience  you,  ma'am.  But  you  see, 
ma'am,  there's  the  law  and  here's  the  warrant. 
I'm  bound  to  do  what  the  law  requires  —  I'll 
have  to  serve  it." 

"  Indeed,  you  won't  do  anything  of  the  kind  ! 
Who  ever  heard  of  such  impudence  !  "  exclaimed 
old  lady  Gordon.  "  The  very  idea !  Taking 
my  cook  away  from  getting  my  dinner  to  lock 
her  up  in  jail!  Upon  my  word,  Jim  Slocum, 
I  thought  you  had  some  sense.  But  I'm  not 
going  to  allow  you  to  annoy  me  or  get  me 
stirred  up  on  a  warm  morning  like  this.  I'm 
not  even  going  to  discuss  the  matter.  Just  you 
run  along  now,  Jim,  that's  a  good  fellow,  and 
let  Eunice  alone  —  she's  busy — and  don't 
bother  me  any  more." 

She  settled  herself  back  in  her  wide,  low 
chair,  and  began  to  wave  the  turkey-wing  fan 
with  one  hand,  turning  the  leaves  of  her  novel 
with  the  other. 

"  But  you  see,  ma'am,  it's  a  mighty  grave 
charge,  attempted  murder,  —  the  state  - 

"  Grave  fiddlesticks !  "  retorted  old  lady  Gor 
don,  looking  up  from  her  novel  with  real  fire 
blazing  now  in  her  fine  dark  eyes.  "  The 
state  !  "  with  infinite  scorn.  "  What  difference 
would  it  make  to  me  if  it  were  the  United 
States?  I  tell  you  I  won't  have  another 
word ! " 

Her  raised  voice,  the  lower  tone  of  the  offi 
cer's  mild,  but  firm,  persistence,  the  hurried 
gathering  and  smothered  whispering  of  the  ser- 

307 


Oldfield 

vants  around  the  windows  and  doors,  all  these 
combined  had  finally  attracted  the  attention  of 
Lynn  Gordon,  who  was  absorbed  in  reading 
in  his  own  room  overhead,  and  he  now  came 
hurrying  downstairs.  Entering  his  grand 
mother's  room,  he  looked  in  surprise  at  the 
group  which  he  found  there;  at  her,  at  the 
constable,  and  lastly  at  Eunice,  who  had  stood 
quietly  by  throughout  the  whole  controversy 
with  the  manner  of  a  coolly  disinterested  spec 
tator.  The  officer  turned  eagerly  to  Lynn  with 
the  relief  that  every  man  feels  upon  the  entrance 
of  another  man  into  a  difficult  business  trans 
action  with  women. 

"  Maybe  you  can  persuade  your  grandmother 
to  let  Eunice  go,"  the  constable  said,  addressing 
him,  when  a  few  words  had  made  the  matter 
clear  to  Lynn.  "  It  is  really  the  quickest  way 
to  get  her  cook  back.  The  county  judge  is  in 
town  ;  I  saw  him  tying  his  horse  to  the  tavern 
hitching-post  as  I  passed  coming  down  here. 
He'd  hurry  up  the  case  and  get  it  over  in  no 
time  to  accommodate  your  grandma,  being  as 
they're  kinder  kin  —  him  and  your  grandma's 
folks." 

"  Mr.  Slocum  is  right,  grandmother.  That 
is  certainly  the  quickest  way,  and  the  easiest," 
Lynn  said.  "  Let  Eunice  go  and  I'll  defend 
her;  I'll  take  her  as  my  first  case,  —  shall  I  ?  " 
he  added  smilingly,  looking  at  old  lady  Gordon. 

"  I  don't  care  what  any  of  you  do,  so  long  as 
you  let  me  alone  and  have  Eunice  back  here  in 
time  to  get  my  dinner.  What  have  you  been 

308 


Invoking  the  Law 

tip  to,  anyway  ?  "  she  said,  suddenly  turning  to 
Eunice  as  if  the  nature  of  the  charge  had  just 
occurred  to  her  for  the  first  time.  "  Well,  you'd 
better  be  back  in  plenty  of  time  to  boil  that 
blackberry  roll,  that's  all  I've  got  to  say  to  you. 
Lynn,  send  somebody  to  tell  Davy,  —  that's  the 
judge,  Judge  Thompson, — to  tell  Davy  Thomp 
son  that  I  would  be  much  obliged  if  he  would 
go  to  the  court-house  at  once  and  get  this  bother 
over,  so  that  Eunice  may  be  back  within  an 
hour.  Please  ask  him  to  take  the  trouble  to 
hurry;  tell  him  I  asked  it.  Send  Enoch  Cotton 
- —  where  is  Enoch,  anyway  ?  "  she  said,  glancing 
over  the  assemblage  of  black  masks  crowding 
the  windows  and  doors. 

Enoch  —  naturally  enough  —  was  not  to  be 
found  then  nor  for  hours  afterward,  but  another 
servant  was  despatched  running  in  his  stead;  and 
then  the  procession  moved  briskly  out  through 
the  side  gate  and  on  up  the  big  road  toward  the 
court-house.  Eunice  walked  behind  the  officer 
as  manners  required,  but  there  was  nothing 
abject  in  her  carriage.  She  held  her  head  high, 
feeling  glad  that  she  happened  to  be  wearing  her 
gayest  bandanna  head-handkerchief  and  that  her 
white  apron  was  still  spotlessly  clean.  Hers  was 
an  imposing  figure,  and  she  knew  it,  and  conse 
quently  bore  herself  with  dignified  pride.  Her 
friends,  too,  began  to  flock  around  her  as  the 
procession  advanced,  thus  swelling  the  crowd ; 
and  the  white  people  living  along  the  big  road 
came  to  the  doors  and  windows  of  their  houses 
to  see  what  was  going  on. 

309 


Oldfield 

From  the  opposite  direction  approached  a 
much  larger  and  longer  procession,  headed  by 
Merica,  fairly  flamboyant  in  an  ecstasy  of  tri 
umph,  and  tailed  by  dusky  ragged  figures,  some 
of  them  little  black  children,  trailing  in  the 
distance,  indistinct  as  a  smoky  antique  frieze. 
Merica's  forces  largely  outnumbered  Eunice's, 
as  the  attacking  army  nearly  always  outnum 
bers  the  defending  force.  Merica  came  march 
ing  at  the  very  forefront,  as  if  to  the  throb  of 
inaudible  drums  and  to  the  waving  of  invisible 
banners.  Eunice  trod  more  slowly,  as  the  gar 
rison  goes  cautiously  to  man  the  walls. 

There  was  one  tense,  dangerous  moment 
when  the  opposing  forces  met  at  the  court 
house  steps;  but  the  judge,  the  prosecuting 
attorney,  and  the  prisoner's  counsel  chanced, 
luckily,  to  arrive  at  the  same  instant,  so  that, 
owing  to  their  restraining  presence,  the  danger 
passed  with  no  greater  violence  than  an  ex 
change  of  threatening  glances  between  the 
contending  parties.  Side  by  side  the  furious 
factions  crowded  into  the  small  court-room,  and 
straightway  the  examining  trial  of  Eunice  for 
attempted  murder  was  then  and  there  begun, 
without  an  instant's  delay. 

And  yet  everything  was  done  decently  and 
in  order.  It  was  a  complete  surprise  to  the  de 
fence  to  find  that  the  assault  which  had  taken 
place  in  the  butter-bean  bower  was  entirely 
ignored  in  the  indictment.  The  charge  was 
that  Eunice  had  put  poison  in  the  well  from 
which  Merica  drew  water,  thereby  attempting  to 

310 


Invoking  the  Law 

kill,  to  murder,  and  to  do  deadly  harm  etc.,  to  the 
plaintiff.  The  prosecuting  witness  testified  that 
she  had  heard  a  noise  about  daylight ;  that  on 
going  to  the  well  she  had  found  an  empty  box, 
which  she  was  certain  had  contained  rat-poison, 
lying  beside  it ;  and  that  a  white  powder  which 
she  was  mortally  sure  was  the  rat-poison  itself 
—  and  nothing  else  —  was  plainly  to  be  seen 
floating  on  the  surface  of  the  water.  Such  was 
the  case  made  out  by  the  prosecution.  It  was 
not  at  all  what  the  defence  w7as  prepared  for,  but 
the  prisoner's  counsel  showed  himself  to  be  a 
person  of  resources  upon  sudden  demand.  He 
readily  admitted  that  the  prosecuting  witness 
might  have  heard  a  noise  about  daylight. 
There  were,  as  he  had  himself  observed,  a  great 
many  cats  in  that  part  of  the  village.  Also  he 
admitted  with  equal  readiness  that  she  might 
have  found  an  empty  box  which  had  once  con 
tained  a  rat-poison.  He  pointed  out  the  fact 
that  this  particular  variety  of  rat-poison  was  in 
such  general  use  in  Oldfield,  —  where  rat-poison 
was  one  of  the  necessities  of  life,  not  merely  one 
of  its  luxuries, — that  the  empty  boxes  which  had 
contained  it  were  to  be  found  almost  anywhere. 
As  for  the  alleged  poison  itself,  which  a  notori 
ously  untruthful  and  untrustworthy  witness  had 
just  testified  to  seeing  still  afloat  on  the  surface 
of  the  water  in  the  well,  after  the  acknowledged 
lapse  of  several  hours  —  the  court  could  judge 
the  worth  of  that  evidence  without  any  assist 
ance  from  the  defence. 

Here   Mr.  Pettus  unexpectedly  appeared  in 
3" 


Oldfield 

the  court-room.  He  kept  the  rat-poison,  as  he 
kept  everything  in  daily  Oldfield  demand,  and 
he  had  been  hurriedly  summoned  as  an  expert 
witness  for  the  defence,  and  he  now  took  the 
stand.  He  testified  to  having  handled  that  par 
ticular  variety  of  rat-poison  in  very  large  quan 
tities  for  many  years.  He  claimed,  on  cross- 
examination,  to  be  perfectly  familiar  with  the 
kind  of  box  used  by  the  manufacturers  of  the 
rat-poison,  and  he  gave  it  as  his  opinion  that 
the  particular  box  in  question  —  the  one  which 
he  then  held  in  his  hand,  and  which  he  was 
examining  minutely — had  been  used  for  several 
other  purposes,  and  harmless  ones,  apparently, 
since  being  emptied  of  its  original  deadly  con 
tents.  He  called  the  attention  of  the  court  to 
the  fact  that  a  particle  of  sugar  still  adhered  to 
one  corner,  while  a  grain  of  coffee  still  lingered 
in  another  corner.  Finally,  when  the  prisoner's 
counsel  was  quite  ready  for  the  grand  stroke, 
he  allowed  the  witness  —  who  was  an  amateur 
chemist  in  the  line  of  his  business  —  to  testify 
from  his  own  personal  knowledge  of  the  rat- 
poison  that  it  dissolved  instantly  upon  coming 
in  contact  with  water. 

"  And  yet,  your  Honor,  the  prosecution  rests 
its  case  upon  the  testimony  of  an  ignorant,  vin 
dictive  savage,  who  swears  —  who  solemnly  testi 
fies  under  oath,  your  Honor — that  she  saw  this 
identical  poison,  and  no  other,  floating  on  the 
surface  of  the  water  in  the  well  several  hours 
after  she  claims  to  have  heard  a  noise ;  that  it 
was  there,  plainly  to  be  seen,  several  hours  after 

312 


Invoking  the  Law 

my  ^nnocent  client  is  known  to  have  been  at 
work  in  her  mistress's  kitchen  and  was  seen  in 
her  mistress's  garden,  openly  and  constantly  in 
view  of  the  whole  community.  I  can  summon 
any  number  of  unimpeachable  witnesses  —  " 

"  The  declaration  is  dismissed.  The  com 
plaint  is  denied  for  lack  of  evidence,"  said  the 
judge,  as  seriously  as  possible.  "  Call  the  next 
case." 

"  You  may  go  home  now,  Eunice,"  said  Lynn, 
smiling. 

"  Yes,  sir.  Thank  you,  sir,"  said  Eunice, 
calm  as  ever,  and  deliberately  dropping  a 
clumsy  courtesy. 

She  courtesied  still  more  clumsily  to  the 
court  and  to  Mr.  Pettus,  and  to  all  the  white 
persons  present,  and  then  she  turned  slowly 
and  ponderously,  like  some  large  and  heavy 
royal  personage,  and  she  cast  openly  a  high 
glance  of  infinite  scorn  over  the  humbled  heads 
of  her  enemies.  They  might  flock  like  coal- 
black  crows  as  much  as  they  had  a  mind  to, 
she  remarked  in  the  dialect  which  they  best 
understood ;  they  were  no  more  to  her  than  the 
dust  of  the  big  road  which  she  had  "  trompled 
under  foot"  She  had  white  folks  for  her 
friends,  she  said  triumphantly.  With  this  sin 
gle  parting  volley  she  went  slowly  and  calmly 
down  the  court-house  steps  and  set  off  home 
ward,  bearing  herself  with  all  the  arrogance  of 
Semiramis  returning  victorious  to  Nineveh. 

"  Well,  so  you  are  back  in  time !  No,"  said 
old  lady  Gordon,  holding  up  the  turkey-wing 


Oldfield 

fan  with  a  restraining  gesture  and  resuming 
her  novel  with  a  yawn,  "  I  don't  want  to  hear 
a  word  about  it.  I  know  well  enough  that  you 
ought  to  be  in  the  penitentiary.  Go  on  and 
get  my  dinner." 

At  the  other  end  of  the  village  Merica, 
deeply  dejected,  utterly  crushed,  stole  toward 
home  close  in  the  shelter  of  the  fence.  She  was 
returning  entirely  alone,  as  the  leader  of  a  lost 
cause  nearly  always  returns,  if  he  return  at  all. 
One  by  one  her  followers  had  dropped  away,  one 
disappearing  here  in  a  back  yard,  another  vanish 
ing  there  in  a  wood-lot,  till  all  were  gone.  De 
sertion  is  the  bitter  hemlock  of  defeat  that  the 
vanquished  are  always  forced  to  drink.  The 
board  was  still  off  the  fence  at  its  farthest  corner ; 
Merica  had  squeezed  through  the  hole  on  her 
flamboyant  departure,  so  that  Miss  Judy  might 
not  see  her  and  prevent  her  going ;  and  she  now 
dragged  herself  through  it  again  on  her  down 
cast  coming  back,  and  thus  reached  the  coveted 
shelter  of  her  own  domain  and  was  able  to  hide 
her  diminished  head  wholly  unobserved  by  her 
unsuspicious,  gentle  little  mistress. 

"  Merica's  very  quiet  this  morning.  I  haven't 
heard  her  stirring,"  Miss  Judy  said  to  Miss 
Sophia,  as  they  sat  placidly  side  by  side  in  their 
little  rocking-chairs — swaying  gently — as  they 
so  loved  to  sit.  They  were  talking,  too,  with 
that  inexhaustible  interest  in  one  another's  con 
versation  which  made  their  lifelong  companion 
ship  the  beautiful  and  perfect  thing  it  was. 

"  Perhaps  the  poor  creature  is  distressed  over 
3*4 


Invoking  the  Law 

the  falling  down  of  the  bower.  She  seemed  to 
be  real  fond  of  it.  And  how  strange  to  think 
there  could  have  been  such  a  violent  storm 
without  a  drop  of  rain  or  our  hearing  the 
wind.  I  thought  at  first  that  we  might  have 
the  bean-poles  set  up  again,  but  the  poles  are 
broken  and  the  vines  are  actually  torn  up  by 
the  roots.  Oh,  yes,  —  going  back  to  what  we 
were  discussing  before  I  happened  to  think  of 
the  bower, —  I  am  sure  that  you  are  quite  right 
in  thinking  that  Doris's  character  has  developed 
very  rapidly  of  late.  Her  ideals  really  appear 
surprisingly  well  formed  for  so  young  a  girl. 
And,  as  you  say,  there  could  hardly  be  any 
thing  unsettling  now  in  her  reading  about  the 
troubles  that  poor  Becky  went  through.  It  can 
hardly  do  the  dear  child  any  harm  now  even  to 
read  about  the  mistakes  which  poor  Becky  made. 
For  you  know,  sister  Sophia,  Becky  was  really 
good-hearted.  You  remember  that  Amelia 
might  have  gone  sorrowing  all  her  life,  but  for 
Becky's  being  so  kind-hearted." 

Miss  Judy  pleaded  as  though  Miss  Sophia 
was  some  keen  and  merciless  critic  from  whose 
stern  justice  she  strove  gently  to  save  the  inno 
cently  erring. 

"Just  so,  sister  Judy,"  responded  Miss  So 
phia,  so  promptly,  so  firmly,  so  comprehen 
sively,  so  conclusively,  that  Miss  Judy  beamed 
at  her,  positively  radiant  with  admiration,  and 
sighed  a  deep  sigh  of  relief  and  satisfaction  at 
having  the  long  and  sorely  vexing  question  thus 
thoroughly  disposed  of  at  last. 


XX 

THE    CONFLICT    BETWEEN    FAITH    AND    LOVE 

ABOUT  that  time  of  the  year  an  aspect  of 
great,  glowing  beauty  and  a  feeling  of  deep, 
sweet  peace  always  comes  to  this  beautiful, 
pastoral  country. 

The  long,  warm  days  are  then  of  the  rarest 
gold,  and  the  short,  cool  nights  are  of  the  purest 
silver.  The  ripened  grain  has  been  garnered, 
and  its  golden  sheaves  no  longer  tent  the  rich, 
broad  lands.  The  tall,  tasselling  corn  now  flows 
free  in  rippling,  murmuring,  ever  widening  sil 
very  seas.  The  ocean  of  the  vast  tobacco  fields 
rolls  and  rolls  its  mighty  billows  of  deepening 
green  into  the  darkening  purple  haze  of  the 
misty  horizon.  The  wooded  hillsides  are  now 
very  still,  and  dark  blue  shadows  linger  all  day 
among  the  trees — which  stir  scarcely  a  leaf — 
waiting  to  creep  down  toward  the  village  at 
nightfall  to  meet  the  snow-white  mist  loitering 
over  the  resting  meadows.  The  birds,  too, 
are  resting,  half  asleep  in  the  heart  of  the 
ancient  wood;  they  sing  more  seldom  and  their 
songs  are  sweeter  and  softer  and  come  forth 
touched  with  a  tender  melancholy.  The  very 
shrilling  of  the  crickets  in  the  long  grass  sounds 
less  shrill,  and  seems  to  rise  and  fall  with  the 
waves  of  heat.  The  butterflies,  clustering  on  the 

316 


The  Conflict  between  Faith  and  Love 

commonest  wayside  weeds  like  tropical  flowers, 
hardly  move  their  dazzling  wings  of  yellow 
and  white,  waving  them  as  languorously  as 
a  flower  unfurls  its  petals.  And  then  —  in 
those  radiant  days  —  the  thistledown  also  softly 
spreads  its  pinions  of  gossamer  silver,  and,  borne 
on  the  breath  of  the  south  breeze,  it  wings  its 
weightless  way  over  all  the  snow-masses  of  the 
elder  bloom,  and  burnishes  its  lacelike  whiteness 
into  the  luminous  border  of  the  veil  which  the 
midsummer  heaven  lends  to  the  midsummer 
earth. 

The  honeysuckle  over  Tom  Watson's  window 
was  thinning  under  the  heat  and  bronzing  under 
the  drouth.  Its  leaves,  green-yellow,  drifted 
languidly  down  to  the  browning  grass  of  the 
neglected  lawn.  So  that  there  was  scarcely  a 
cool  shadow  left  to  shield  the  wretchedness  of 
the  stricken  man,  sitting  day  after  day  in  the 
spot  to  which  destiny  had  chained  him ;  or  one 
*to  cover  the  sadness  of  the  wife,  keeping  her 
hopeless  vigil  by  his  side,  in  open  view  for  every 
passer-by  to  see.  It  was  a  sight  to  wring  any 
heart,  and  the  Oldfield  people  were  always  kind 
to  one  another  and  always  helpful — as  simple, 
poor  people  are  everywhere.  But  in  this  sad 
case  there  seemed  no  way  to  help,  nothing  that 
any  one  could  do.  No  one  might  penetrate  the 
dumb  horror  of  the  sick  man's  awful  gaze,  strain 
ing  all  the  desolate  day  through,  as  long  as  the 
light  lasted,  toward  some  unseen  and  unreach- 
able  thing,  as  a  wild  creature  strains  dumbly  at 
its  chain.  No  one  could  pass  the  silence  of 

317 


Oldfield 

Anne's  reserve  to  share,  to  lessen,  or  even  com 
pletely  to  comprehend  the  conflict  ceaselessly 
waging  within  the  high,  narrow  walls  of  her 
spirit. 

Up  to  the  beginning  of  this  strife  Anne's 
heart  and  soul  had  gone  more  nearly  abreast, 
more  evenly  side  by  side,  than  most  women's 
hearts  and  souls  are  able  to  go  through  life. 
The  one  nearly  always  goes  before  the  other  in 
every  true  woman's  breast.  And  the  path  of 
Anne's  spirit  was  very  narrow,  much  narrower 
than  that  in  which  most  women  tread ;  so  that, 
at  this  last  steep  pass,  there  was  not  room  for 
both  to  go  together,  and  thus  her  heart  and 
her  soul  were  forced  to  strive,  the  one  with  the 
other,  for  the  right  of  way.  There  was  never 
a  moment's  doubt  in  Anne's  single,  simple, 
and  most  strenuous  mind  as  to  which  should 
lead.  Now,  as  always,  the  road  between  right 
and  wrong  lay  straight,  clear,  and  open  before 
her  feet.  There  never  was  the  slightest  danger" 
of  her  wandering  or  wavering.  But  oh,  the 
agonized  wringing  of  her  heart,  the  almost 
unendurable  travail  of  her  soul  —  in  this  death 
struggle  for  her  husband's  salvation!  And 
yet  she  suffered  the  anguish  unflinchingly,  her 
very  love  forbidding  her  conscience  to  yield,  to 
barter  the  hope  of  the  life  everlasting  for  the 
relief  of  a  few  broken  years.  And  every  day  the 
conflict  grew  fiercer  as  her  husband's  growing 
strength  increased  his  piteously  powerless  resist 
ance  to  restraint,  and  fed  the  flame  of  his  desire 
for  cards,  now  as  strong  as  any  ruling  passion 

318 


The  Conflict  between  Faith  and  Love 

ever  was  in  death.  Impassive  as  Anne  was  by 
nature,  she  used  sometimes  to  wonder  if  she 
would  be  able  to  bear  it  any  longer  and  live. 
Her  heart  was  breaking,  her  soul  was  almost  at 
bay,  so  desperate  was  the  strife  between  the  two. 

It  is  one  of  life's  cruel  ironies  that  the  deepest 
feeling  must  often  find  trival  and  even  absurd 
expression.  In  poor  Anne's  first  blind  casting 
about  for  something  to  divert  her  husband's 
thoughts,  in  her  first  futile  trying  to  remember 
what  he  used  to  like, — and  she  had  known  very 
little  of  his  tastes  in  the  days  of  his  strength, — 
the  recollection  of  seeing  him  read  the  county 
newspaper,  which  was  published  weekly  in  a 
neighboring  town,  came  suddenly  out  of  the 
mists  of  her  memory.  She  sent  for  the  paper 
and  tried  to  read  it  to  him,  beginning  at  the 
top  line  of  the  first  column  and  going  straight 
through  to  the  last  line  on  the  last  page,  fearing 
lest  she  might  miss  the  article  which  he  most 
wanted  to  hear.  But  Anne  was  not  a  good 
reader,  and  a  clouded  mind  and  a  racked  body 
do  not  make  a  patient  listener.  Tom  gave  no 
sign  and  he  did  not  try  to  speak;  but  Anne 
saw  his  miserable,  unresting  eyes  wander  away 
to  the  far-off  purpled  hills,  beyond  which  lay  the 
free,  bright  world  ;  and  his  thoughts  —  but  who 
dare  wonder  whither  his  thoughts  wandered  ? 

After  the  failure  in  the  reading  of  the  news 
paper,  Anne  turned  to  books.  There  were  no 
new  books  in  Oldfield,  had  poor  Anne  known 
the  new  from  the  old,  and  there  were  few  of 
any  kind.  Miss  Judy  had  more  than  any  one 


Oldfield 

else,  and  she  was  eager  in  offering  all  that  had 
belonged  to  her  father,  as  well  as  the  handful  of 
more  recent  ones  gathered  by  her  own  simple 
tastes ;  and  these  last  she  urged  upon  Anne  as 
being  lighter  and  more  cheerful,  and  conse 
quently  more  suited  to  the  cheering  of  an 
invalid.  She  was  quite  sure,  so  she  said,  smil 
ing  to  hearten  Anne,  that  Tom  would  like  to 
hear  about  Becky ;  he  had  always  liked  lively, 
good-hearted  people — like  himself.  But  Anne 
instinctively  chose  the  major's  books  instead, 
shrinking  from  all  lightness  as  unsuited  to  her 
husband's  need,  and  believing,  as  a  woman  of 
her  type  usually  believes,  that  a  man  is  most 
interested  in  what  she  herself  least  understands. 
When  the  reading  of  the  dry  old  books  had 
failed  even  more  completely,  if  possible,  than 
the  reading  of  the  newspaper,  Anne  tried  to 
talk  to  her  husband ;  and  that  was  the  hardest 
of  all.  She  had  always  been  a  silent  woman, 
well  named  "  still-tongued  " ;  and  now  that  her 
sad  heart  lay  in  her  bosom  like  lead,  she  found 
less  and  less  to  say,  so  that  this  last  attempt  was 
the  most  complete  and  the  saddest  of  her  manj 
repeated  defeats.  It  was  then,  when  at  the  end 
of  her  own  resources,  that  she  held  to  Sidney's 
hand,  and  asked  with  her  appealing  eyes  for 
the  help  which  she  knew  not  how  to  beg  with 
her  lips.  After  this  Sidney  wrent  every  day  to 
see  Tom,  and  told  him,  as  amusingly  as  she 
could  tell  anything,  of  everything  that  was  going 
on,  no  matter  whether  he  listened  or  not.  And 
she  also  sent  Doris,  who  went  often  (taking 

320 


The  Conflict  between  Faith  and  Love 

Miss  Judy's  guitar  at  that  little  lady's  sugges 
tion)  to  sing  to  the  invalid,  and  who  was  careful 
to  choose  her  gayest  songs  aftd  to  play  nothing 
less  cheerful  than  the  Spanish  fandango ;  and 
it  really  seemed,  once  in  a  while,  as  if  a  light 
came  into  the  sick  man's  darkened  gaze  as  it 
rested  upon  the  girl  as  she  tinkled  the  old 
guitar,  with  the  broad  blue  ribbon  falling 
around  her  beautiful  shoulders. 

The  whole  village  was,  in  truth,  unwearying 
in  its  kindness  all  the  long  days,  through  all 
those  long  months ;  but  there  were,  neverthe 
less,  the  lonely  hours  of  the  endless  nights  to 
be  passed  alone,  when  the  desperate  husband 
and  the  despairing  wife  dumbly  faced  the 
appalling  future,  —  a  burning,  unlighted,  empty 
desert,  —  stretching  perhaps  through  many  ter 
rible  years.  And  even  then  Anne  stood  firm, 
with  her  sad,  steady  eyes  ever  on  the  white 
heights  which  she  saw  beyond  the  black  gulf, 
wherein  she  strove  perpetually  with  the  powers 
of  darkness  for  her  husband's  soul. 

She  never  left  him  now  for  a  moment,  night 
or  day,  except  when  there  was  preaching  in  her 
own  church  and  her  faith  required  the  "break 
ing  of  bread  " ;  and  at  rare  long  intervals  to  go 
to  prayer-meeting,  when  she  felt  her  strength 
failing  and  hoped  to  find  in  the  prayers  of  others 
new  strength  for  her  own  ceaseless  petitions. 
One  night  of  midsummer,  when  the  bell  began 
to  ring  for  prayer-meeting,  she  felt  that  she  must 
go.  She  accordingly  arose — reluctantly  as  she 
always  left  him  —  and  went  into  the  bedroom 
321 


Oldfield 

and  put  on  her  quakerish  bonnet.  Then  she 
came  back  and  stood  before  her  husband,  seek 
ing  wistfully  to  do  something  more  for  his 
comfort  before  leaving  him,  as  she  never  forgot 
to  try  to  do.  She  turned  the  cushions  at  his  back 
to  make  them  softer,  and  moved  the  pillows  be 
hind  his  head  so  that  it  might  rest  easier,  and 
straightened  the  cover  over  his  powerless  knees. 
These  poor  things,  which  she  always  did,  were 
all  that  she  ever  could  do.  She  would  return 
soon,  as  soon  as  she  could,  she  said,  as  she 
always  said,  bending  down  to  press  her  pale  lips 
to  his  scarred  forehead.  At  the  gate  she  stopped 
and  lingered,  looking  back,  as  she  always  looked, 
sorely  loath  still  to  leave  him  even  for  an  hour 
of  uplifting  prayer. 

Night  was  near.  The  last  red  gold  of  the 
sunset  had  paled  from  the  highest,  farthest 
hilltop,  where  the  graveyard  lay.  The  tomb 
stones —  the  new  white  ones  that  stood  so 
straight,  the  older  gray  ones  that  leaned,  the 
oldest  brown  ones  that  had  fallen  —  all  were 
dim  now  in  the  soft  glory  of  the  afterglow,  as 
many  of  the  cold,  hard  things  of  this  world  are 
softened  by  the  tender  light  from  the  world 
above.  The  dusk  was  already  creeping  down 
the  darkling  arches  of  the  wooded  hillsides. 
Mists  were  already  arising  from  the  low-lying 
meadows,  trailing  long  white  cloud-fleeces,  all 
starred  with  fireflies,  thus  making  a  new  heaven 
of  the  old  earth. 

Through  the  gloaming  and  the  stillness 
Anne's  lonely  figure  went  steadily,  swiftly  on- 

322 


The  Conflict  between  Faith  and  Love 

ward  toward  the  church.  Lynn  Gordon  noted 
the  tense  paleness  and  the  strange  exaltation 
of  her  still  face,  when  he  met  and  passed  her 
on  the  big  road,  faint  as  the  light  was,  and  the 
sight  of  it  touched  him,  though  his  own  mind 
was  lightly  at  peace  and  his  own  heart  was  over 
flowing  with  thoughtless  happiness.  The  im 
pression  of  suffering  that  her  face  had  given 
him  was  still  in  his  mind  when  he  drew  near 
the  window  beside  which  the  sick  man  sat,  and 
because  of  it,  or  some  other  motive  that  he  did 
not  stop  to  fathom,  he  suddenly  stood  still,  and 
after  a  hesitating  pause,  and  a  longing  glance 
toward  the  silver  poplars,  he  opened  the  gate 
and  crossed  the  yard  and  went  to  the  window 
to  speak  to  Tom  Watson.  Nothing  was  farther 
from  his  thoughts  than  any  intent  of  going  into 
the  house  —  as  he  told  the  doctor  afterwards 
when  speaking  of  what  followed. 

"  It  was  like  mesmerism.  I  have  not  the 
vaguest  idea  of  how  it  really  happened.  His 
awful  eyes  drew  me,  when  I  didn't  want  to  go. 
They  dragged  me  into  that  house  as  if  a  giant 
hand  had  been  laid  upon  my  collar.  The  first 
thing  that  I  knew  the  negro  boy  who  waits  on 
Watson  had  set  out  a  table  and  put  the  lamp  on 
it,  and  had  laid  a  pack  of  cards  between  him  and 
me."  The  young  man  shuddered  at  the  recollec 
tion.  "  I  hope  I  may  never  again  see  anything 
like  that  poor  wretch's  face  when  his  palsied 
hands  first  touched,  the  cards  which  I  dealt  him. 
I  tried  to  remind  myself  that  there  couldn't  be 
any  harm  in  such  a  game  and  that  there  might 

323 


Oldfield 

be  some  good.  But  to  see  such  a  passion  as  his 
for  gambling  looking  out  of  a  dead  man's  face 
is  a  sight  which  I  hope  never  to  look  upon  again." 
The  lamplight  shone  far  down  the  big  road 
that  night,  and  Anne  saw  it  almost  as  soon  as 
she  left  the  meeting-house  on  her  lonely  way 
home.  At  the  sight  her  heavy  heart  seemed  to 
leap  as  if  it  would  escape  from  its  cell  of  pain; 
and  then,  faint  with  deadly  fear,  it  seemed  to 
fall  back  as  though  it  could  never  beat  again. 
Too  near  to  fainting  to  stand,  she  sat  down  on 
the  roadside,  and  remained  without  moving  for  a 
long  time.  She  was  all  alone  in  the  darkness,  no 
one  else  was  going  her  way ;  and  no  one  passed 
along  the  deserted  thoroughfare.  She  knew  at 
once  what  the  streaming  lamplight  meant;  and 
she  tried  to  think  what  was  best  to  do,  now  that 
the  worst  was  come.  She  arose  tremblingly  at 
last,  when  she  had  rallied  strength  enough,  and 
she  went  on  feebly  through  the  still  blackness  of 
the  night,  like  a  woman  suddenly  stricken  with 
great  age.  She  did  not  know  that  she  was  weep 
ing,  and  the  great,  slow,  heavy  tears  of  the  rarely 
moved  fell  unheeded  down  her  white  cheeks. 
The  gate  was  open,  as  Lynn  Gordon  had  left  it, 
and  she  entered  the  yard  noiselessly,  passing  the 
window  like  an  unseen  shadow  and  with  an 
averted  face.  On  the  steps  at  the  back  of  the 
house  she  sank  down  almost  prone  and  lay 
motionless,  hardly  conscious,  she  knew  not  for 
how  long.  The  heavy  tears  still  fell  silently 
and  unnoticed,  as  the  hardest  rain  falls  without 
storm.  She  was  trying  to  think,  but  she  could 

324 


The  Conflict  between  Faith  and  Love 

not ;  she  could  do  nothing  but  pray.  And  she 
prayed  — praying  as  one  having  great  faith  does 
pray  when  a  tidal  wave  from  life's  troubled  sea 
sweeps  over  a  stranded  soul.  For  Anne's  faith 
stood,  even  now,  firm  as  a  mighty  rock  anchored 
to  the  foundations  of  the  earth.  And  through 
all  the  darkness  and  turmoil  of  this  supreme 
spiritual  stress  a  single  ray  of  white  light  shone 
steadily  as  a  beacon  to  her  tossed  spirit.  The 
abomination  had  not  come  through  any  weakness 
of  hers ;  her  faith  had  not  yielded  to  her  love. 

The  next  perfect  day  had  worn  slowly  to  an 
other  glorious  sunset  when  Anne  went  again 
down  the  big  road,  but  this  time  toward  the 
Gordon  place.  Lynn  saw  her  coming,  and  he 
arose  from  his  seat  on  the  porch,  where  he 
chanced  to  be  sitting  alone  with  his  cigar,  and 
went  to  meet  her,  thinking  how  foolish  it  was 
for  him  to  be  smitten  at  the  first  sight  of  her  by 
a  sense  of  guilt  and  a  painful  conviction  of 
having  done  her  an  injury.  He  tried  to  throw 
off  the  feeling  with  a  smile,  as  he  stood  holding 
open  the  gate  for  her  to  enter. 

There  was  no  answering  smile  on  Anne's 
pale  face,  yet  its  perfect  calmness  and  the  steadi 
ness  of  her  clear  gaze  reassured  him  somewhat. 
Her  voice  also  was  quite  calm  and  steady  when 
she  said  that  she  could  not  come  in  to  see  his 
grandmother,  as  he  invited  her  to  do ;  and  after 
a  momentary  hesitation  added  that  she  had  come 
solely  to  give  him  a  message  from  her  husband 
—  one  that  she  could  not  send  by  any  one  else. 

325 


Oldfield 

"  Tom  has  sent  me  to  ask  if  you  will  play  cards 
with  him  again  to-night,"  she  said  deliberately, 
in  a  curiously  level  tone,  as  if  weighing  every 
word,  and  with  her  clear  eyes  fixed  with  singular 
intensity  on  the  young  man's  face. 

"  Why  —  of  course  I  will  —  I'll  be  delighted 
to,"  Lynn  responded  eagerly,  with  much  relief. 
He  had  not  expected  her  to  say  anything  of  this 
kind.  "  But,  my  dear  Mrs.  Watson,  you  needn't 
have  taken  the  trouble  to  come  all  this  distance 
yourself  to  ask  me.  I  should  have  come  will 
ingly,  no  matter  who  had  brought  the  request. 
Mr.  Watson  had  only  to  tell  me  when  he  wished 
me  to  come." 

"  That  is  why  I  came.  I  wanted  to  make  sure 
that  you  would  come  just  the  same,  whether  I 
asked  you  or  not,"  said  Anne,  still  looking  at  him 
with  her  luminous  clearness  of  gaze,  the  white 
light  behind  her  eyes  shining  high  and  bright. 

"  Certainly,"  he  replied  quickly,  made  uneasy 
by  her  look,  though  he  knew  not  why  and  did 
not  in  the  least  understand  what  was  in  the 
mind  of  this  quiet  woman  of  few  words. 

She  stood  silent  for  a  moment,  so  frail,  so 
pale,  under  the  gloom  of  the  low,  dark  boughs 
of  the  cypress  tree,  that  she  seemed  more  spirit 
than  flesh.  Then  she  silently  turned  away  her 
clear  eyes,  in  which  sorrow  lay  heavy  as  stones 
at  the  bottom  of  a  still  crystal  pool.  She  stood 
for  a  moment  silently  looking  far  over  the 
shadowed  fields,  above  which  the  white  banners 
of  mist  were  already  afloat  on  the  evening 
breeze.  Her  inscrutable  gaze  then  wandered 

326 


The  Conflict  between  Faith  and  Love 

toward  the  cloud  mountains  towering  in  the 
west,  their  snowy  summits  rifted  by  rivers  of 
molten  gold,  and  flooding  the  peaceful  earth 
with  unearthly  beauty. 

"  Until  I  knew  whether  anything  that  I  could 
say  or  do  would  make  any  difference  —  about 
your  coming  —  I  could  not  see  my  way,"  she 
said,  turning  back,  her  strange  eyes  again  look 
ing  straight  into  his  perplexed  eyes.  "  Now 
that  you  have  told  me,  I  must  do  what  is  right 
—  as  nearly  as  I  can." 

"  I  don't  understand,"  faltered  the  young  man. 
"  Would  you  like  me  to  come  with  you  now  — 
at  once?  I  am  quite  ready." 

"I  can't  let  you  —  or  any  one  —  do  for  my 
husband  what  I  am  not  willing  to  do  for  him 
myself.  I  can't  ask  another  to  commit  sin  for 
him  in  my  stead.  If  it  must  be  done,  it  is  / 
who  must  do  it  —  not  any  one  else." 

She  spoke  calmly,  but  with  infinite  sadness, 
and  her  pale  face  turned  a  shade  paler,  if  it 
could  be  paler  than  it  had  been  when  she  first 
appeared  beneath  the  gloomy  cypress  boughs. 

The  young  man  was  startled,  bewildered, 
touched.  He  no  longer  felt  like  smiling  at 
Anne's  taking  the  matter  seriously ;  there  was 
no  longer  anything  absurd  in  her  attitude.  His 
impulsive  heart,  always  quick  to  see  and  to  re 
spond  to  the  real,  the  fine,  and  the  high,  filled 
now  with  a  sudden  rush  of  sympathy  for  this 
quiet  woman  with  the  white  face  and  the  spare 
speech,  for  all  her  narrow  mind  and  her  stern 
faith. 

327 


Oldfield 

But,  my  dear  madam,  you  don't  know  how 
to  play  cards,  do  you  ?  "  he  protested  confusedly, 
at  a  loss  what  to  say  or  to  do. 

"  No,"  said  Anne,  with  an  involuntary  move 
ment  of  shrinking.  "But  I  thought — I  can't 
see  my  way.  It  is  the  first  time.  I  don't  seem 
to  be  able  to  tell  right  from  wrong.  But  I 
thought  that  if  —  if  you  would  teach  me  —  that 
is  if  it  wouldn't  be  wrong  for  me  to  ask  you  — 
even  to  do  that ! " 

"  How  could  it  be  wrong  ? "  he  said  gently. 
"  I  have  never  thought  that  there  was  any  harm 
in  card-playing  merely  for  amusement.  I  will 
gladly  teach  you  what  I  know,  which  isn't  a 
great  deal,  nor  hard  to  learn." 

"  The  path  is  dark  before  my  feet.  I  can  only 
stumble  on  till  the  light  be  given,"  murmured 
Anne,  as  if  thinking  aloud,  even  as  though  she 
were  praying. 

"  Let's  go  now,"  said  Lynn,  taking  a  sudden 
resolution.  "  If  you  are  not  yet  satisfied,  we 
can  talk  it  all  over  as  we  walk  along." 

Anne  assented  silently;  they  passed  out  from 
beneath  the  shadow  of  the  cypress  tree  and  went 
on  their  way  up  the  deserted,  darkened  big  road, 
but  neither  found  another  word  to  say.  The 
light  of  the  lamp,  awaiting  the  game  on  the  sick 
man's  table,  already  shone  far  to  meet  them,  and 
when  its  beams  fell  on  Anne's  face  Lynn  turned 
his  eyes  away. 

But  she  did  not  falter ;  she  led  the  way  through 
the  gate  and  straight  into  the  room  where  that 
awful,  dumb  figure  sat,  striving  to  shuffle  the 

328 


The  Conflict  between  Faith  and  Love 

cards  with  its  poor  palsied  hands,  and  with  the 
gambler's  terrible  eagerness  flaming  in  his  eyes. 
Anne  laid  off  her  bonnet,  and  without  speaking 
took  the  player's  place  opposite  her  husband. 

Lynn  was  as  silent  as  Anne  herself,  but  he 
quietly  placed  himself,  standing,  beside  her, 
thinking  as  he  did  this  and  glanced  at  her  that 
the  look  of  exaltation  on  Anne's  white,  still  face 
must  have  been  the  look  that  the  martyrs  wore 
when  they  entered  the  arena  to  confront  the 
wild  beasts.  He  felt  awed  by  the  solemnity  of 
the  scene.  He  hardly  dared  move  or  speak,  it 
so  weighed  upon  him,  but  he  explained  the 
rules  and  the  terms  of  the  game  as  simply  and 
as  briefly  as  he  could.  He  never  forgot  the 
sudden  dilation  of  Anne's  eyes  and  the  dim 
ness  that  followed,  as  though  the  white  light 
behind  them  had  suddenly  flared  high  before 
going  out,  when  he  first  put  the  cards  in  her 
hands  and  the  game  began. 

"You  must  draw  —  you  draw  to  a  straight 
flush.  Mr.  Watson  stands  pat,"  said  Lynn,  in 
a  hushed  tone,  feeling  as  if  he  were  desecrating 
some  holy  place  —  starting  at  the  sound  of  his 
own  voice  as  though  it  sounded  through  a 
cathedral. 

"  I  draw  to  a  straight  flush.  Mr.  Watson 
stands  pat,"  repeated  Anne's  pale  lips,  as  a  pious 
soul  in  extremity  might  murmur  a  Latin  prayer 
which  it  did  not  understand. 

"  Now  you  raise  him,"  prompted  Lynn. 

"  Now  I  raise  you,"  echoed  Anne. 

44  Ah,  he  calls  you  and  takes  the  pot." 
329 


Oldfield 

"  He  calls  me  and  takes  the  pot." 

Thus  begun,  the  game  went  on  by  surer  de 
grees  through  the  terrible  hours  of  the  horrible 
night,  till  a  later  bedtime  than  Tom  Watson  had 
known  since  he  had  ceased  to  be  the  keeper  of 
his  own  time.  The  next  morning  it  was  re 
sumed  as  soon  as  breakfast  was  over,  and  con 
tinued  day  after  day  and  night  after  night. 
The  teacher  wearied  after  the  first  day,  though 
he  came  oftener  than  he  might  have  been  ex 
pected  to  come,  since  he  was  young  and  happy, 
and  there  were  other  and  pleasanter  things 
drawing  him  away.  But  Anne  learned  fast 
—  faster,  perhaps,  than  she  had  ever  learned 
anything  else.  There  are  few  things  that  the 
slowest-witted  woman  cannot  learn  when  her 
whole  heart  and  soul  hang  upon  the  learning. 
It  was  therefore  not  long  before  she  could  play 
alone,  after  a  fashion,  and  from  that  time  on 
she  played  ceaselessly  through  every  waking 
moment,  stopping  only  for  the  meals  that 
neither  husband  nor  wife  could  eat.  So  that 
every  morning  Anne  sat  down  to  the  card-table, 
silently  imploring  pardon  for  the  sin  which  she 
was  about  to  commit;  every  night  she  lay  wearily 
down  on  her  sleepless  bed,  praying  for  forgive 
ness  for  the  sin  which  she  had  committed  during 
the  day.  And  always  Anne  played  with  the 
unaltered  belief —  firm  as  her  belief  in  the  plan 
of  salvation  —  that  she  staked  on  every  game 
the  relief  of  her  husband's  body  against  the 
saving  of  his  soul. 


33° 


XXI 

WHAT    OLDFIELD    THOUGHT    AND    SAID 

THUS  it  was  that  all  the  peace  and  beauty 
of  those  glorious  midsummer  days  brought 
neither  rest  nor  pleasure  to  Anne. 

The  quiet  awakening  of  the  tranquil  world, 
soft  as  the  tenderest  trembling  of  a  harp ; 
the  first  musical  tinkling  that  came  murmuring 
up  from  the  misty  meadows  with  the  earliest 
stirring  of  the  flocks  and  herds ;  the  gentle 
calling  of  the  dumb  creatures ;  the  aerial  flute 
notes  wafted  down  the  leafy  arches  of  the  dew- 
wet  woods  ;  the  palest  glory  of  the  dawn  coming 
for  the  perpetual  refreshment  of  the  earth ;  the 
final  coronation  of  the  Day  King  with  the  mar 
shalling  of  his  dazzling  lances  through  the 
royal  red  and  gold  of  the  hilltops, — all  these 
wonders  of  a  marvellously  beautiful  world  were 
to  Anne  but  the  dreaded  daily  summons  to  the 
renewal  of  a  hopeless  conflict. 

It  was  like  her  never  to  think  of  sitting 
elsewhere  than  in  the  old  place — at  her  hus 
band's  side  by  the  open  window  —  after  begin 
ning  to  play  cards.  It  would  have  been  utterly 
unlike  her  to  have  thought  of  doing  anything 
else,  to  have  considered  for  a  moment  what 
her  neighbors  might  think  or  say.  For  hers 


Oldfield 

was  a  nature  condemned  at  its  creation  to  a 
loneliness  even  greater  than  that  in  which 
every  soul  must  forever  dwell  apart.  All  her 
life  she  had  lived  as  one  alone  on  a  desert 
island.  Now,  under  this  supreme  anguish  of 
living,  the  amazed  gaze  of  the  whole  world, 
its  approval  or  its  disapproval,  would  have 
been  to  her  —  had  she  thought  of  it  —  no 
more  than  the  moaning  of  the  winter  wind 
through  the  graveyard  cedars. 

And  yet,  naturally  enough,  this  utter  uncon 
sciousness  upon  Anne's  part  did  not  lessen 
in  the  least  the  shock  which  the  entire  com 
munity  felt  on  seeing  her — Anne  Watson  — 
of  all  women  in  all  the  world  at  the  card-table 
by  the  open  window,  in  view  of  everybody  pass 
ing  along  the  big  road !  Those  who  first  saw 
the  incredible  sight  could  scarcely  believe  their 
own  eyes.  Those  who  first  heard  of  it  utterly 
refused  to  credit  it  until  they  had  made  a 
special  trip  up  and  down  the  big  road,  twice 
passing  the  window,  in  order  to  see  and  to  make 
sure  for  themselves.  And  then,  when  there 
was  no  longer  room  for  doubt  or  dispute,  a 
sort  of  panic  seized  the  good  people  of  Oldfield. 
With  this  appalling  backsliding  of  Anne  Wat 
son's  the  whole  religious  and  social  fabric 
seemed  suddenly  going  to  pieces. 

Only  Lynn  Gordon  and  the  doctor  knew 
the  truth.  Lynn  had  not  told  his  grand 
mother  of  Anne's  visit  nor  of  her  request.  His 
grandmother  was  not  one  to  whom  he  would 
have  spoken  of  anything  which  had  touched  him 

332 


What  Oldfield  Thought  and  Said 

keenly  or  moved  him  deeply.  And  he  had 
even  not  told  Doris,  whom  he  would  most 
naturally  have  trusted,  certain  of  being  under 
stood,  certain,  too,  of  sympathy  for  Anne.  A 
feeling  of  delicate  consideration  for  Anne,  a 
sense  that  she  had  trusted  him,  only  because  she 
could  not  do  otherwise,  that  she  had  opened  her 
reserved  heart  to  him,  who  was  almost  a  stranger, 
only  because  she  was  forced  to  do  it,  under 
terrible  necessity,  —  all  these  mingled  feelings 
had  a  part  in  holding  him  silent.  To  the  doctor 
alone  he  felt  that  he  should  give  a  full  account 
of  what  had  taken  place.  But  when  he  tried 
to  tell  even  him,  Lynn  unexpectedly  found  it 
very  hard  to  make  Anne's  motives  and  posi 
tion  as  clear  to  another  person  as  he  had  felt 
them  to  be.  He  realized  for  the  first  time  that 
she  had  somehow  made  him  feel  much  more 
than  she  had  been  able  to  put  into  words. 
She  had  so  few  words  —  poor  Anne  —  and  the 
few  that  she  had  were  meagre  indeed.  The 
impulsive,  warm-hearted  young  fellow  stam 
mered,  and  reddened,  and  laughed  at  himself, 
in  a  manly  embarrassment  that  was  a  pleasant 
thing  to  see,  as  he  tried  clumsily  to  put  the 
matter  before  the  doctor  in  its  true  light,  and 
in  a  way  to  do  justice  to  Anne.  Fortunately 
the  doctor  understood  at  once,  and  might  have 
understood  had  the  young  man  said  even  less 
than  he  finally  found  to  say.  That  friend  of 
humanity  had  learned  something  of  Anne's 
character  during  her  husband's  long  illness. 
Two  earnest  natures,  stripped  for  a  shoulder 

333 


Oldfield 

to  shoulder  contest  with  death  over  a  sick-bed, 
come  as  near,  perhaps,  to  knowing  one  another 
as  any  two  souls  may  ever  approach.  A  doctor's 
very  calling,  moreover,  must  reveal  to  him  —  as 
hardly  the  confessional  can  reveal  to  another 
man  —  the  winding  mazes  of  the  simplest,  sin- 
cerest  woman's  conscience. 

When    the  doctor  went  home  after   talking: 

•  c? 

with  Lynn,  he  tried  to  show  his  wife  that  there 
was  no  occasion  for  the  widespread  excitement 
over  this  unaccountable  change  in  Anne.  He 
hoped  that  an  off-hand  word  to  his  wife  might 
have  some  effect  in  settling  the  swirl  of  gossip 
which  circled  the  village,  faster  and  faster,  with 
Anne's  continued  appearance  at  the  card-table, 
as  the  continual  casting  of  pebbles  agitates  a 
stagnant  pool.  But  Mrs.  Alexander,  good,  kind, 
charitable  woman  though  she  was,  could  only 
sigh  and  shake  her  head.  She  said  that  she 
had  never  understood  Anne,  but  that  she  had 
always  respected  her  sincerity,  no  matter  how 
widely  she  herself  might  differ  in  opinion.  But 
what  could  anybody  think  or  say  of  Anne's  sin 
cerity  now  ?  The  doctor's  wife  cast  a  shocked, 
frightened,  glance  at  the  Watson  house.  Such 
open,  flagrant  backsliding  really  was  enough  to 
make  the  lightning  strike. 

And  Mrs.  Alexander's  view  was  the  one  held 
by  most  of  the  Oldfield  ladies,  all  of  whom  took 
the  incomprehensible  affair  much  to  heart.  Only 
Miss  Judy  and  Kitty  Mills  saw  nothing  to  alarm, 
nothing  to  wonder  at,  nothing  in  the  least  un 
natural  in  Anne's  change  of  attitude.  But  then, 

334 


What  Oldfield  Thought  and  Said 

Miss  Judy  was  well  known  to  believe  that  every 
body  always  had  some  praiseworthy  motive  for 
everything,  if  others  were  only  clear-sighted 
enough  to  perceive  it.  Her  pure  mind  was  a 
flawless  crystal,  reflecting  every  ray  of  light  from 
many  exquisite  prisms,  but  sending  nothing  out 
of  actual  darkness.  And  no  one  ever  regarded 
seriously  the  views  of  Kitty  Mills,  who  was  noto 
riously  willing  for  every  one  to  do  precisely  as 
he  liked,  as  nearly  as  he  could,  without  any  ex 
planation  or  any  reason  whatever,  so  that  her 
opinion  had  the  very  slight  value  which  usually 
pertains  to  the  opinions  of  the  easily  pleased. 
All  the  other  Oldfield  ladies  were  too  deeply 
shocked,  too  utterly  amazed,  to  know  what  to 
think,  or  what  to  say,  or  what  to  do.  They 
could  only  gather  in  solemn,  excited  conclave 
at  one  another's  houses,  and  discuss  the  situa 
tion  daily  and  almost  hourly,  with  growing 
wonder  and  bated  breath. 

Sidney  was,  of  course,  the  central  figure  in 
this,  as  in  all  other  things  vital  to  the  life  of  the 
village.  As  much  at  a  loss  for  once  as  the 
dullest,  she  held  nevertheless  to  her  high  esteem 
for  Anne,  and  in  canvassing  the  strangeness  of 
the  latter's  conduct  from  house  to  house,  as  she 
felt  compelled  to  canvass  it,  she  invariably  spoke 
of  her  with  great  kindness,  even  while  admitting 
that  it  would  be  hard  for  a  Philadelphia  lawyer 
to  find  out  what  Anne  meant  by  whirling  round 
like  a  weathercock.  It  is  likely  that  Sidney  took 
off  her  bonnet  and  let  down  her  hair  oftener, 
and  shook  it  out  harder,  and  twisted  it  up  tighter, 

335 


Oldfield 

at  this  time,  than  at  any  other  period  of  her 
entire  professional  career.  She  used,  indeed, 
to  stop  all  along  the  big  road — anywhere — and 
hang  her  bonnet  on  the  fence,  while  she  shook 
her  hair  down  and  twisted  it  up  again ;  and  her 
knitting-needles  flew  faster  than  they  had  ever 
done  before  or  ever  did  afterward.  One  day, 
as  she  happened  to  be  entering  the  doctor's 
gate  to  keep  an  important  engagement  with 
Mrs.  Alexander,  she  saw  Miss  Pettus  stand 
ing  before  the  Watson  house,  gazing  at  the 
window,  —  which  had  now  become  the  stage  of 
a  mystery  play,  —  and  not  only  gazing,  but  star 
ing  as  if  some  dreadful  sight  had  suddenly 
turned  her  to  stone.  Sidney  called  to  her,  but 
she  did  not  turn  or  respond  in  any  way  for  some 
minutes ;  and  when  she  finally  joined  Sidney 
and  the  doctor's  wife  on  the  latter's  porch,  where 
they  were  sitting,  she  was  really  pale  from  agi 
tation  and  actually  sputtering  with  excitement. 
.  "  Chips ! "  she  gasped,  sinking  into  a  chair. 
"  Poker  chips.  I  saw  'em  with  my  own  eyes 
and  heard  'em  with  my  own  ears !  I  give  you 
both  my  sacred  word  as  a  member  of  the  Meth 
odist  Episcopal  Church  in  good  standing." 

"  Poker  chips  are  neither  here  nor  there,"  said 
Sidney,  in  the  lofty,  judicial  tone  which  she  had 
maintained  throughout  the  controversy. 

She  eyed  Miss  Pettus,  however,  silently  and  a 
little  severely,  as  she  loosed  several  rounds  of 
yarn  from  her  big  ball,  and  held  them  out  and 
deliberately  shook  them  apart  at  arm's  length. 
It  did  not  please  her  to  hear  of  poker  chips  —- 

336 


What  Oldfield  Thought  and  Said 

or  anything  else  of  interest  —  through  Miss 
Pettus  or  any  other  person.  It  was  her  own 
special  and  exclusive  province  to  discover  and 
distribute  the  news.  She  felt  much  as  the 
editor  of  a  great  daily  newspaper  might  feel  if 
some  casual  passer-by  should  drop  in  to  tell  him 
of  the  day's  greatest  public  event. 

"  Poker  chips  are  neither  here  nor  there,"  she 
repeated  coolly,  and  almost  contemptuously,  as 
one  looking  to  larger  things.  "  No  matter  what 
Anne  Watson  does,  and  no  matter  how  she  does 
it,  there's  one  thing  that  you  may  always  be  sure 
of,  Miss  Pettus,  and  that  is  —  that  she  believes 
she  is  doing  right." 

"  Who  said  she  didn't  ? "  retorted  Miss  Pettus. 
"  Have  I  said  anything  about  the  right  or 
wrong  of  it  ?  I  don't  care  anything  about  the 
right  or  wrong  of  card-playing.  Some  folks 
think  one  way  and  some  another  —  and  they 
may  go  on  thinking  so  for  all  me.  What  I  do 
say  is  that  a  body  ought  to  stick  to  what  she 
does  believe,  whatever  it  is,  no  matter  whether 
she's  a  Methodist  like  me  or  a  Christian  like 
Anne." 

"  Well  —  'pon  my  word  !  "  exclaimed  Sidney, 
seeing  a  chance  for  reprisal,  and  furtively  wink 
ing  the  eye  next  to  the  doctor's  wife.  "  To  hear 
you  talk,  Miss  Pettus,  folks  would  think  there 
wasn't  anybody  but  Methodists  and  Christians. 
Where,  pray,  do  the  rest  of  us  come  in  ?  There's 
Jane  there  —  a  Cumberland  Presbyterian,  dyed 
blue  in  the  wool.  Vender's  Miss  Judy,  an 
Episcopalian  of  the  highest  latitude  and  the 
z  337 


Oldfield 

greatest  longitude,  and  a-training  Doris  to  be 
just  like  her.  And  here  am  I  —  a  Baptist  — 
a  Baptist  born  and  a  Baptist  bred  —  and  a 
Whiskey  Baptist  at  that." 

"  If  I  were  you,  Sidney  Wendall,"  replied  Miss 
Pettus,  with  offended  dignity,  "  I  wouldn't  make 
fun  of  my  own  religion  if  I  did  make  fun  of 
every  other  earthly  thing  I  came  across.  You 
know  as  well  as  I  do,  and  as  Jane  here  does, 
that  there  is  no  such  thing  as  a  Whiskey 
Baptist  —  and  never  was  and  never  will  be." 

"  No  such  thing  as  a  Whiskey  Baptist  ? "  ex 
claimed  Sidney,  pretending  to  be  wholly  in 
earnest,  and  slyly  winking  again  at  the  doctor's 
wife.  "  Then  what,  may  I  ask,  would  you  have 
called  my  own  father  and  his  only  brother — two 
church  members  in  good  and  regular  standing, 
and  two  as  good  and  highly  respected  citizens 
as  this  Pennyroyal  Region  ever  had,  to  boot? 
What  else  could  you  call  them,  I  ask  you, 
'Mandy  Pettus  ?  Didn't  they  always  pay  their 
debts  on  the  stroke  of  the  town  clock,  and  to 
a  hundred  cents  on  the  dollar?  Didn't  they 
always  vote  the  straight  Democratic  ticket  for 
fifty  years,  without  ever  a  scratch  from  end  to 
end  ?  Didn't  they  always  get  drunk  on  every 
county  court  day  of  their  lives,  and  keep  sober 
all  the  rest  of  the  year  ?  No  Whiskey  Baptists 
indeed ! " 

"  What's  all  that  tirade  got  to  do  with  what 
I  said  about  Anne's  —  and  everybody's  —  being 
what  they  pretend  to  be  ? "  fumed  Miss  Pettus. 
"  That's  what  I  said  and  what  I'll  keep  on 

338 


What  Oldfield  Thought  and  Said 

saying  as  long  as  I  have  the  breath  to  speak 
my  honest  mind.  And  I'll  say  it  about  any 
body,  no  matter  who,  just  the  same.  Chop 
ping  and  changing  till  a  body  don't  know  where 
to  find  you,  looks  to  me  just  as  bad  in  one 
denomination  as  another.  And  levity  in  those 
who  ought  to  be  serious-minded  is  levity  to  me 
wherever  I  find  it.  Now,  look  at  our  own  circuit 
rider,  only  last  Sunday !  After  that  powerful 
sermon  which  warmed  up  the  whole  town,  and 
shook  the  dry  bones,  what  did  he  do? — right 
out  of  the  pulpit,  too,  —  but  stop  and  hang  over 
the  fence  like  a  schoolboy  for  a  laughing  confab 
with  Kitty  Mills !  There  she  was,  of  course, 
standing  out  in  the  broiling  sun  with  nothing 
but  her  apron  thrown  over  her  silly  head, 
while  you  could  hear  old  man  Mills  scolding 
her,  the  whole  blessed  time,  at  the  top  of  his 
peevish  voice.  It  was  perfectly  scandalous  and 
nothing  but  scandalous  to  see  such  goings-on 
on  the  Lord's  Day.  Kitty  was  telling  him 
about  her  late  young  turkeys  getting  out  in 
that  last  hard  rain  and  holding  up  their  heads 
with  their  mouths  wide  open,  till  the  last  one 
of  them  drowned.  As  if  there  was  anything 
uncommon  or  funny  in  that ;  as  if  everybody 
didn't  know  that  young  turkeys  always  did  that 
whenever  they  got  a  chance.  And  the  simple 
tons  were  both  laughing  as  if  they'd  never 
heard  such  a  joke,  and  as  if  it  had  been  Monday 
instead  of  Sunday,  and  the  circuit  rider  hadn't 
had  any  good  work  to  do." 

"  Maybe  he  thinks  that  is  a  part  of  his  good 
339 


Oldfield 

work,"  said  the  doctor's  wife,  gently.  "  Kitty 
Mills  surely  needs  all  the  kindness  she  can  get 
outside  her  own  family,  poor  thing,  though  she 
doesn't  seem  to  know  it." 

Sidney  smiled  at  a  sudden  recollection.  "  I 
passed  there  yesterday,  in  the  heat  of  the  day, 
and  saw  her  in  the  garden  bending  over  and 
pulling  the  weeds  out  of  her  handful  of  vege 
tables.  It  made  me  real  uneasy  to  look  at  her 
leaning  down  so  long  and  steady,  and  her  so 
short  and  stout,  and  I  said  so.  But  she  only 
laughed  till  she  cried,  and  declared  there  wasn't 
any  danger  except  to  her  corset-boards.  Then, 
when  she  could  speak  for  laughing,  she  said 
she  had  saved  almost  enough  to  stick  her 
bunch  peas.  And,  —  if  you'll  believe  it, — 
Sam  left  the  garden  gate  open  last  night,  and 
the  pigs  got  in  and  eat  every  one  of  'em  up." 

"The  corset-boards?"  gasped  Miss  Pettus,  in 
a  tone  of  blank  amazement,  which  implied, 
nevertheless,  that  she  would  not  be  in  the 
least  surprised  at  anything  happening  to  Kitty 
Mills. 

Sidney  eyed  Miss  Pettus  humorously,  as  she 
loosed  more  rounds  of  yarn  from  her  big  ball, 
holding  it  out  again  at  arm's  length ;  but  there 
was  no  time  for  any  reply  had  she  thought  it 
worth  while  to  make  one,  for  Mrs.  Alexander's 
cook  appeared  in  the  doorway  just  at  that  mo 
ment,  to  say  that  supper  was  ready,  and,  follow 
ing  the  hostess,  the  guest  went  to  enjoy  it  with 
out  allowing  it  to  grow  cold.  The  table  had  been 
set  on  the  back  porch,  which  was  on  the  side 

340 


What  Oldfield  Thought  and  Said 

of  the  house  that  was  most  pleasant  at  that 
hour.  And  a  truly  pleasant  place  it  was,  with 
its  whitewashed  pillars,  its  cool  green  curtains 
of  Madeira  vine,  so  waxen  of  leaf  and  so  frost- 
like  in  flower,  and  with  its  green  and  restful 
environment  of  grass  and  fruit  trees.  The  table 
stood  directly  before  the  back  door  of  the  open 
passage.  Sidney's  seat  faced  the  big  road,  and 
she  had  scarcely  seated  herself,  when,  chancing 
to  glance  up,  she  saw  Lynn  and  Doris  as  they 
passed,  going  along  the  big  road.  She  said 
nothing,  however,  of  having  seen  them ;  she 
was  always  reserved  about  her  own  private 
affairs,  and  then  she  was  still  holding  fast  to  her 
early  determination  to  leave  the  young  couple 
entirely  free  to  follow  the  natural  lead  of  their 
own  hearts.  But  the  glimpse  of  them  reminded 
her  of  an  uneasy  suspicion  that  old  lady  Gor 
don  was  not  so  minded,  a  suspicion  which  had 
occurred  to  her  that  day  for  the  first  time. 
Now,  therefore,  with  the  unhesitating  decision 
characteristic  of  her  in  all  things,  she  resolved, 
then  and  there,  to  talk  it  over  with  Miss  Judy 
as  soon  as  she  could  get  away  from  the  supper 
table. 

But  it  was  never  easy  for  Sidney  to  get 
away ;  a  hostess,  paying  the  stipulated  price  of 
a  high-priced  entertainer,  rightfully  expects  to 
get  the  worth  of  her  fee.  No  one  knew  this 
better  than  Sidney  herself,  and  she  accordingly 
so  exerted  her  utmost  ability,  so  put  forth  her 
most  brilliant  talent,  that  she  fully  made  up  for 
the  shortened  time;  and  the  only  regret  upon 

341 


Oldneld 

the  part  of  the  hostess  was  that  such  a  delightful 
entertainment  should  ever  come  to  an  end.  Miss 
Pettus,  also,  was  sorry  to  have  Sidney  go ;  and, 
now  quite  restored  to  good  humor,  she  whis 
pered  to  her,  as  they  parted  at  the  gate,  —  one 
going  up  the  big  road  and  one  going  down, — 
that  she  meant  to  send  Kitty  Mills  a  couple  of 
young  turkeys  that  very  night,  just  to  keep  her 
from  behaving  so  like  a  simpleton  the  next  time 
the  circuit  rider  went  by,  and  just  to  make  her 
see  how  shamefully  she  had  behaved  about  that 
stubborn  old  dorminica. 

Out  into  the  dim,  dusty  highway  Sidney  now 
swung,  with  her  long,  free,  fearless,  indepen 
dent  step,  which  seemed  to  ask  nothing  of  life 
and  the  world  but  to  be  allowed  to  go  her  own 
way;  walking  and  knitting  as  fast  as  though 
the  dusk  had  been  daylight.  Reaching  Miss 
Judy's  house  she  found  the  little  sisters  sitting 
happily  side  by  side  just  within  the  open  door  of 
the  unlighted  passage,  as  they  always  were  to 
be  found  at  that  time  on  the  summer  evenings. 
Miss  Judy  was  talking  in  her  soft,  bright  little 
way,  which  reminded  the  listener  of  the  chir 
ruping  of  a  happy  bird ;  and  Miss  Sophia  was 
listening  with  enthralled  interest  between  lapses 
of  unconscious  nodding.  And  now,  as  always 
when  they  talked  together,  both  had  the  eager 
manner  of  having  never  before  had  a  really 
satisfying  opportunity  to  exchange  vividly  novel 
views  and  intensely  interesting  experiences,  so 
that  they  hardly  knew  how  to  make  enough  of 
this  truly  delightful  chance. 

342 


What  Oldfield  Thought  and  Said 

They  were  glad,  nevertheless,  to  greet  Sidney, 
as  everybody  always  was  ;  and  Miss  Judy  said, 
as  soon  as  Sidney  had  come  within  speaking  dis 
tance,  that  Lynn  and  Doris  had  stopped  for  a 
moment  to  ask  how  she  was  feeling,  and  that 
she  had  told  them  she  felt  almost  strong  again, 
—  nearly  sure,  indeed,  of  being  able  to  give  the 
tea-party  on  the  coming  Thursday. 

"  I  am  really  mortified  at  not  having  given  it 
before  this  time,"  she  went  on,  blushing  un 
seen  in  the  gloaming.  "  It  does  seem  too  bad, 
this  spoiling  of  lovely  plans  just  on  account 
of  a  foolish  shortness  of  breath.  It  was  such 
a  disappointment  to  sister  Sophia,  not  to  have 
the  tea-party  while  the  blush  roses  were  in 
bloom,  for  they  match  mother's  best  cups  and 
saucers  perfectly.  And  then  came  the  cinna 
mon  roses  —  they  might  have  done  fairly  well, 
though  they  are  not  quite  so  delicate  a  shade, 
but  they  also  have  bloomed  and  faded  long 
ago.  Now  the  hundred-leaf  roses  will  have  to 
do  —  as  I  was  just  saying  to  sister  Sophia 
when  you  came,  Sidney  —  although  their  hearts 
are  rather  too  dark  to  be  as  pretty  as  the  others 
would  have  been.  But  we  must  give  the  tea- 
party  anyway,  blush  roses  or  no  blush  roses, 
without  any  more  delay,  since  I  have  thought 
lessly  mentioned  it  to  old  lady  Gordon,  who  never 
makes  any  allowances  and  who  is  rather  critical." 

"  Oh,  you  told  her,  did  you  ?  "  exclaimed  Sid 
ney.  "  Then  that  accounts  for  what  I  came  to 
see  you  about." 

"  I  felt  that  it  was  due  to  Doris  that  I  should 

343 


Oldfield 

tell  her;  that  she  should  know  that  only 
circumstances  over  which  we  had  no  control 
have  so  far  prevented  our  paying  the  dear  child 
the  compliment  of  a  formal  introduction  to 
society,"  said  Miss  Judy,  with  her  pretty,  comical, 
society  air. 

"  Well,  it  explains  what  old  Lady  Gordon 
said  to  me  without  rhyme  or  reason  when  she 
met  me  on  the  big  road  yesterday  —  stopping 
her  coach  in  the  middle  of  the  big  road  to  do 
it,  too,  —  something  that  she  never  took  the 
trouble  to  think  of  before." 

Sidney  leaned  forward  and  peered  up  and 
down  the  highway  to  make  sure  that  no  one 
was  within  hearing,  and  she  listened  for  an 
instant  to  Miss  Sophia's  deep  breathing  in  the 
still  darkness  of  the  passage. 

"  Now,  mark  my  words,  Miss  Judy,"  she 
then  said,  in  a  guarded  undertone.  "  That  old 
Hessian  means  to  interfere.  She  is  going  to 
make  trouble.  I  feel  it  in  my  bones." 

"Why?"  cried  Miss  Judy,  startled  and  be 
wildered.  "  What  do  you  mean,  Sidney  ? 
What  did  she  say  ?  " 

"  She  said  —  without  rhyme  or  reason,  as 
I've  told  you  —  that  her  grandson  was  going 
away  very  soon  to  begin  the  practice  of  his 
profession,  and  that  he  hadn't  any  time  to 
waste  on  any  nonsense,  like  old  women's  silly 
tea-parties.  She  didn't  call  him  by  his  name, 
either,  as  she  always  has  called  him  heretofore. 
She  called  him  '  my  grandson,'  in  that  high  and 
mighty,  stand-off-and-keep-your-place  way  that 

344 


What  Oldfield  Thought  and  Said 

she  knows  how  to  put  on,  when  she  wants  to 
and  ain't  too  lazy.  Now,  mark  my  word,  Miss 
Judy.  Trouble's  a-coming !" 

"  Oh,  how  could  any  one  be  unkind  to  that 
dear  child,"  cried  Miss  Judy,  almost  in  tears. 

"  I'd  like  to  see  anybody  try  it,  while  I'm 
'round,"  said  Sidney,  with  the  fierceness  that 
appears  in  the  humblest  barnyard  hen  when  her 
chick  is  touched.  "  I'm  all  ready  and  a-wait- 
ing.  Just  let  old  lady  Gordon  so  much  as  bat 
her  eye  and  I'll  give  her  goss.  I'll  tell  her  the 
Lord's  truth,  if  she  never  heard  it  before.  I'll 
tell  her  to  her  face  that  no  Gordon  that  ever 
stepped  ever  was,  or  ever  will  be,  fit  to  dust  my 
Doris's  shoes,  so  far  as  being  good  goes  —  or 
smart  and  good-looking  either.  This  young 
Gordon  is  decent  enough,  I  reckon,  as  young 
men  go.  And  his  father  went  pretty  straight 
because  he  hadn't  the  spunk  or  the  strength 
to  go  crooked.  He  was  like  a  toad  under  a 
harrow,  poor  soul !  He  was  so  tame  that  he'd 
eat  out  of  your  hand.  But  even  that  old  Hes 
sian  never  harrowed  or  tamed  the  old  man, 
who  was  a  match  for  her.  No-siree  !  Not  while 
he  had  the  strength  to  hop  over  a  straw.  Why, 
the  whole  woods  were  full  of  his  wild  colts." 

"  Ah,  indeed !  I  never  knew  that  the  old 
gentleman  ever  had  any  interest  in  horses," 
Miss  Judy  murmured  absently,  almost  tearfully, 
not  thinking  in  the  least  of  what  she  was 
saying. 

"  That  was  a  long  time  ago,"  said  Sidney 
hastily,  remembering  suddenly  to  whom  she  was 

345 


Oldfield 

speaking.  "  What  the  old  folks  were  in  their 
young  days  is  neither  here  nor  there.  It  makes 
no  difference  now.  This  young  Gordon  seems 
to  be  a  fine  young  fellow,  but,  fine  or  coarse,  all 
that  I  ask  of  that  old  Hessian,  or  of  anybody, 
is  to  do  as  I  do,  and  to  let  him  and  Doris 
alone,  and  not  to  meddle;  just  to  give  the 
two  young  things  a  fair  field  and  no  favor. 
And  that's  what  she  and  everybody's  got  to 
do,  too,  or  walk  over  Sidney  Wendall's  dead 
body." 

"Don't  —  don't,"  entreated  Miss  Judy's  soft 
voice,  coming  out  of  the  quiet  darkness  with  a 
tremulous  gentleness,  and  telling  of  the  tender 
tears  in  her  blue  eyes.  "  Let  not  your  heart 
be  troubled,  dear  friend.  All  will  be  well  with 
the  child.  All  is  sure  to  come  right  at  last,  if 
we  are  but  as  patient  and  as  trusting  and  as 
true  and  as  faithful  and  as  loving  —  above  all 
as  loving — as  we  should  be.  For  love  is  now  — 
as  it  was  in  the  beginning,  and  ever  shall  be 
—  the  strongest  thing  in  the  world." 


346 


XXII 

THE    UPAS    TREE 

WHEN  Miss  Judy,  thus  urged,  set  the  day  for 
the  tea-party,  naming  even  the  hour,  she  forgot 
for  the  moment  that  the  higher  court  of  the 
district  convened  its  summer  session  on  the  day 
which  she  had  appointed.  And  this  fact  made 
it  impossible  to  give  the  party  on  that  day.  Not 
because  she  had  ever  had  or  ever  expected  to 
have  anything  to  do  with  any  court  of  law  —  for 
coming  events  do  not  always  cast  their  shadows 
before  —  but  because  she  expected  a  visit  from 
Judge  Stanley  on  the  evening  of  his  first  day  in 
town.  For  she  always  knew  just  when  to  look 
for  him;  during  many  years  he  had  come  on  the 
same  day  of  the  month,  at  the  same  hour  and 
almost  at  the  same  minute.  And  Miss  Judy  had 
through  all  those  years  been  in  the  habit  of 
making  certain  delightful  preparations  for  his 
visit,  which  nothing  but  her  love  and  anxiety 
for  Doris  ever  could  have  caused  her  to  forget, 
and  which  not  even  that  could  now  induce  her 
to  forego. 

She  looked  forward  from  one  of  these  visits 
to  the  next  as  to  the  greatest  honor,  and,  after 
her  love  for  Doris  and  her  tenderness  for  her 
sister,  the  greatest  happiness  of  her  life.  She 

347 


Oldfield 

knew  how  great  a  man  this  quiet,  gray-haired, 
famous  jurist  was  to  a  wider  world  than  she  had 
ever  known;  and  the  flattery  of  his  open  and 
exclusive  devotion  filled  her  gentle  heart  with 
sweet  and  tender  pride.  But  there  was  some 
thing  far  tenderer  and  sweeter  than  pride  in  the 
feeling  with  which  Miss  Judy  awaited  the  com 
ing  of  John  Stanley;  for  he  was  always  John 
Stanley,  and  never  the  famous  judge,  to  her. 
She  had  loved  him  before  he  became  a  judge,  even 
before  he  had  become  a  man.  She  had  learned 
to  love  him  soon  after  his  coming  to  Oldfield, 
when  he  was  a  mere  lad,  and  her  own  youth 
was  not  long  past.  She  had  loved  him  then  as 
a  young  and  happy  mother  loves  a  son  who  is 
all  that  the  happiest,  proudest  mother  could 
wish — noble,  gifted,  handsome,  spirited,  fearless 

—  loving  him  as  such  a  mother  loves  such  a  son 
when  they  are  young  together.     She  loved  him 
afterward  with  a  still  more  tender  love — when, 
in  the  space  of  a  pistol  shot,  he  had  changed 
from  a  light-hearted  boy  into  a  sad,  silent  man 

—  loving  him  then  as  a  tender  mother  loves  a 
son  who  has  suffered  and  grown  strong. 

His  blamelessness  in  the  hideous  tragedy 
which  had  darkened  his  life,  and  the  nobility 
with  which  he  bore  himself  throughout  the 
monstrous  ordeal  of  blood,  claimed  all  that  was 
strongest  and  finest  in  Miss  Judy's  nature,  and 
touched  her  romantic  imagination  as  all  the 
brilliant  success  which  came  to  him  later  never 
could  have  done.  It  was  not  for  such  innocent 
gentleness  as  Miss  Judy's  ever  fully  to  under- 

348 


The  Upas  Tree 

stand  the  meaning  of  the  tragedy;  to  comprehend 
how  much  more  terrible  it  was  than  the  cruel- 
est  destiny  of  any  one  man,  how  much  farther 
reaching  through  the  past  and  the  future  than 
the  length  of  any  one  man's  life.  John  Stanley 
himself  understood  it  at  the  time  but  dimly. 
Only  by  degrees  did  he  come  to  see  the  truth : 
that  his  forced  taking  of  the  life  of  a  man  whom 
he  did  not  know,  whom  he  never  had  seen  or 
heard  of,  had  not  been  simply  an  unavoidable 
necessity  in  self-defence,  as  he  had  tried  to 
believe,  —  nor  an  accident,  as  the  verdict  of  the 
law  and  public  opinion  had  decreed,  seeing  that 
it  was  accidental  only  so  far  as  his  instrumen 
tality  was  concerned ;  that  he  himself  was  not 
the  victim  of  chance  —  but  the  helpless  trans 
mitter  of  traditional  bloodshed. 

It  was  revealed  to  him  at  the  trial  which 
acquitted  him,  that  the  man  whom  he  thus  had 
been  compelled  to  kill  had  been  driven  —  ay, 
even  hounded —  by  public  opinion  into  seeking 
the  life  of  the  man  who  had  taunted  him,  and 
in  so  doing  into  finding  his  own  death  at  the 
hands  of  a  lad  who  had  no  quarrel  with  any 
one.  It  was  then  shown  him  that  the  slain  and 
the  slayer  were  equal  sacrifices  to  this  monstrous 
tradition  for  the  shedding  of  blood.  So  that,  as 
he  began  to  see,  and  as  he  continually  looked 
back  upon  this  blighting  tragedy  of  his  boyhood, 
it  thus  became  —  to  John  Stanley,  who  was  a 
thinker,  and  a  Christian,  even  in  his  youth  — 
infinitely  more  terrible  than  any  really  acci 
dental  or  necessary  taking  of  another's  life 

349 


Oldfield 

would  have  been.  He  saw  in  this  monstrous 
deed  which  he  had  been  forced  to  commit, 
the  direct  result  of  a  tradition  of  bloody  ven 
geance:  the  unmistakable  outcome  of  genera 
tions  of  false  thinking,  of  false  believing,  of 
false  teaching,  of  false  example,  of  false  follow 
ing;  all  the  rank  growth  from  one  poisonous 
root,  all  deeply  rooted  in  a  false  sense  of  "honor," 
which,  planted  by  the  Power  of  Evil,  had  grown 
into  the  very  life  of  the  people,  until  it  now 
towered,  a  deadly  upas  tree,  darkening  and 
poisoning  that  whole  sunny  country,  almost  as 
darkly  and  killingly  as  its  murderous  kind  had 
ever  darkened  and  poisoned  beautiful  Corsica. 

When  that  awful  truth  first  became  plain  to 
John  Stanley  —  plain  as  the  handwriting  on  the 
wall  —  it  altered  not  only  his  character,  but  the 
whole  trend  of  his  life.  From  the  day  that  he 
had  first  seen  it  through  the  bloody  tragedy  of 
his  youth,  John  Stanley  had  watched  the  growth 
of  the  poison  tree  with  ever  deepening  horror. 
He  had  seen  its  deadly  shade  pass  the  limits 
of  the  wrong  which  could  never  be  washed  out 
by  the  shedding  of  all  the  blood  that  ever  flowed 
in  human  veins;  he  had  watched  its  creeping 
on  to  trivial  and  even  fancied  offences,  till  it 
touched  trifling  discourtesies,  till  it  reached  at 
last  inconceivably  small  things — the  too  quick 
lifting  of  a  hat  to  a  lady,  the  too  slow  response 
to  the  bow  of  another  man  —  causing  trifles 
light  as  air  to  be  measured  against  a  human 
life.  As  John  Stanley  thus  looked  on,  —  horror- 
stricken,  —  at  the  working  of  this  deadly  poison 

350 


The  Upas  Tree 

throughout  the  body  of  the  commonwealth,  he 
came  gradually  to  believe  it  to  be  even  more 
deadly  and  more  widespread  than  perhaps  it 
really  was.  His  dread  and  fear  of  any  form  of 
violence,  his  horror  of  any  lightness  in  the  hold 
ing  of  life,  his  abhorrence  of  bloodshed  under 
any  provocation,  grew  with  this  morbid  brood 
ing  through  sad  and  lonely  years,  until  they  im 
perceptibly  went  beyond  the  bounds  of  perfect 
sanity,  passing  into  the  fixed  idea  which  much 
lonely  thinking  brings  into  many  sad  lives. 

And  John  Stanley's  life  was  still  lonely,  not 
withstanding  his  late  marriage.  Miss  Judy  felt 
this  to  be  true,  although  she  could  not  have  told 
how  she  knew.  It  always  had  been  a  source 
of  distress  to  her  that  she  could  know  nothing 
of  his  wife,  the  beautiful,  brilliant  woman  of 
fashion  whom  he  had  married  only  a  few  years 
before.  Miss  Judy  thought  wistfully  that  she 
would  know  why  John  seemed  still  so  sad  and 
lonely  if  she  could  only  see  his  wife.  But  the 
judge's  fine-lady  wife  apparently  found  no  in 
ducement  to  come  to  Oldfield;  so  that  Miss 
Judy  was  compelled  to  be  content  with  asking 
how  she  was,  whenever  John  came,  and  with 
hearing  him  say  every  time  that  she  was  well 
—  and  nothing  more. 

But  Miss  Judy  was  not  thinking  about  the 
judge's  wife  on  that  midsummer  night.  It  was 
enough  for  her  perfect  happiness  merely  to  have 
him  there,  settled  for  the  evening  in  her  father's 
arm-chair,  which  was  fetched  out  of  the  parlor 
for  him  and  never  for  any  one  else.  It  was 

35 * 


Oldfield 

delight  only  to  look  at  him,  smiling  at  her  across 
the  passage  —  wherein  they  sat  because  it  was 
cooler  than  the  room  —  quite  like  old  times. 
He  was  a  very  handsome,  very  tall  man,  of 
slender  but  muscular  build,  stooping  slightly 
from  his  great  height  through  much  bending 
over  books.  His  head  was  fine,  with  a  noble 
width  of  brow ;  his  thick  hair,  once  very  dark, 
was  now  silvered  about  the  temples ;  but  his 
eyes  were  as  dark  as  ever,  and  undimmed  in 
their  clear,  steady  brightness.  His  face  was 
sensitive  in  its  clean-shaven  delicacy,  and  pale 
with  the  pallor  of  the  student.  It  was  not  so 
sad  though  on  that  night  as  usual,  nor  nearly  so 
grave.  He  was  rested  and  soothed  and  cheered 
—  this  famous  man  of  large  affairs  —  by  listen 
ing  to  Miss  Judy's  gentle  twittering,  so  kind, 
so  loving.  It  pleased  him  to  see  the  little 
things  that  she  had  done  in  preparation  for  his 
coming.  He  smiled  at  the  sight  of  the  small 
basket  of  rosy  peaches  daintily  set  about  with 
maidenhair  fern.  He  did  not  know  that  in 
order  to  get  the  fruit  Miss  Judy  had  made  a 
hard  bargain  with  the  thrifty  Mrs.  Beauchamp, 
who  had  the  only  early  peaches,  —  a  very 
hard  bargain  whereby  the  little  lady  went  with 
out  butter  on  her  bread  for  a  good  many  days. 
Nor  did  he  suspect  that  she  had  climbed  to  the 
top  of  the  steepest  hillside  trying  to  reach  the 
woods,  regardless  of  the  fluttering  of  her  heart ; 
or  that  she  had  ventured  bravely  even  into  the 
shadiest  dell,  heedless  of  her  fear  of  snakes,  in 
order  to  get  his  favorite  fern  to  wreathe  his 

352 


The  Upas  Tree 

favorite  fruit.  Perhaps  no  man  ever  knows 
what  the  pleasing  of  him  costs  a  loving  woman ; 
certainly  no  loving  woman  ever  takes  the  cost 
into  account. 

But  then,  on  the  other  hand,  perhaps  no 
woman,  howrever  loving,  ever  can  fully  realize 
how  much  unstinted  tenderness  may  mean  to 
the  greatest,  the  gravest,  the  most  reserved  of 
men,  when  he  has  never  found  it  in  his  own 
home  or  anywhere  else  in  all  the  cold  world, 
which  he  has  conquered  by  giving  up  the 
warmth  and  sweetness  of  life  —  as  they  must  be 
given  up  by  every  conqueror  of  the  region  of 
perpetual  ice.  Miss  Judy's  gentle  love  now 
enfolded  him  like  a  soft,  warm  mantle,  so  that 
the  chill  at  his  heart  melted  away.  It  was 
then  very  sweet  on  that  fragrant  midsummer 
night,  to  this  sad  and  weary  man,  to  hear  Miss 
Judy  babbling  gently  on.  He  did  not  always 
listen  to  what  she  said ;  but  the  sound  of  her 
soft  voice  seemed  for  the  moment  to  take  away 
all  weariness  and  pain,  as  she  talked  to  him  of 
the  people  and  the  things  that  he  had  known  in 
his  youth.  She  said  about  the  same  over  and 
over,  to  be  sure,  almost  every  time  he  came, 
but  that  made  no  difference  whatever;  it  was 
the  sweetness  of  her  spirit,  the  peace  of  her 
presence,  that  the  great  judge  craved  and  loved 
and  rested  upon. 

"And  now,  John,  here  are  a  few  peaches  — 

just  the  kind  you  like,"  Miss  Judy  said,  in  her 

artlessly  artful  little  way,  as  if  the  pretty  basket 

had  only  that  moment  fallen  from  the  clouds  — 

2  A  353 


Oldfield 

as  she  always  said  when  he  had  sat  a  certain 
length  of  time  in  her  father's  chair  in  the  cool 
est  corner  of  the  passage. 

"  Why,  —  so  they  are !  "  exclaimed  the  judge, 
in  delighted  surprise,  as  he  always  exclaimed 
when  the  peaches  were  offered  precisely  at  the 
time  when  he  expected  them  to  be.  "  How 
in  the  world  do  you  always  remember  —  never 
once  forgetting  —  from  year  to  year?  And 
these  are  the  prettiest  of  all.  See  the  rose 
velvet  of  that  peach's  bloom." 

And  then  Miss  Judy,  delighted,  and  beaming, 
bustled  about,  spreading  her  mother's  best  nap 
kin  over  the  judge's  knees  and  under  the  plate 
(the  prettiest  one  with  the  wreath  of  forget-me- 
nots),  wishing  with  all  her  loving  heart  that  she 
might  find  a  pretext  for  tying  something  around 
his  dear  neck.  When  she  had  put  an  old  silver 
knife  in  his  hand,  —  after  being  as  long  about  it 
as  she  could  be  —  conscientiously,  —  she  gave 
Miss  Sophia  also  a  share  of  the  rosy  feast,  and 
then  sat  down  with  a  sigh  of  complete  content, 
and  looked  at  them  positively  radiating  happi 
ness  ;  the  happiness  which  only  such  a  woman 
can  feel  in  seeing  those  whom  she  loves  enjoying 
pleasures  and  privileges  which  she  never  claims 
nor  even  thinks  of,  for  herself. 

And  thus  passed  the  first  two  hours  of  the 
three  hours  that  the  judge  always  spent  with 
Miss  Judy  on  the  first  evening  of  his  coming 
to  Oldfield.  There  was  something  which  he  felt 
that  he  must  say  before  he  went  away,  but  he 
shrunk  from  saying  it,  fearing  to  disturb  Miss 

354 


The  Upas  Tree 

Judy;  and  so  put  it  off  as  long  as  he  could, 
waiting  indeed  till  the  last.  He  was  not  sure 
that  it  was  a  matter  of  real  importance ;  he  was 
rather  of  the  opinion  that  it  was  not  of  any 
actual  consequence,  and  yet  he  could  not  help 
mentioning  it  in  justice  to  Miss  Judy.  In 
glancing  over  the  docket  for  the  term,  as  he 
usually  glanced  immediately  upon  reaching  the 
village,  he  was  surprised  to  find  that  a  suit 
had  been  brought  against  the  estate  of  Major 
Bramwell  for  the  payment  of  a  note  given  by 
him  to  Colonel  Fielding.  Looking  farther, 
he  saw  that  the  note  had  been  transferred  to 
Alvarado  years  before,  and  that  the  suit  was 
brought  in  the  Spaniard's  name.  This  was 
the  shadow  now  coming  over  the  judge's 
visit  to  Miss  Judy  —  this,  and  the  blacker 
shadow  cast  by  the  past  whenever  John  Stanley 
was  compelled  to  remember  the  existence  of  the 
Spaniard,  and  the  passion,  cruelty,  and  deceit 
which  had  so  ruthlessly  shut  the  light  out  of 
three  hapless  lives.  He  never  thought  of  him 
if  he  could  help  it ;  he  never  had  been  known 
to  speak  of  him  nor  heard  to  call  his  name. 
When  Alvarado  —  mad  with  hate  and  jealousy 
that  death  itself  had  not  been  able  to  soften 
or  to  cool — had  continued  to  thrust  himself  into 
the  court  upon  first  one  wild  pretext  and  then 
another  wilder  pretext,  during  term  after  term, 
the  judge  had  steadily  looked  away,  had  stead 
ily  held  himself  from  all  anger  as  well  as  all 
violence,  avoiding  the  clash  which  the  madman 
sought.  The  coolness  and  skill  of  the  jurist 

355 


Oldfield 

had  enabled  him  to  do  this  without  great  diffi 
culty  up  to  the  present  time,  and  he  had  no  fear 
of  not  being  able  to  do  the  same  in  the  present 
case.  He  was  not  even  any  longer  afraid  of 
himself.  Still,  it  was  necessary  that  he  should 
explain  the  matter  to  Miss  Judy,  since  she  must 
almost  certainly  hear  of  it  and  might  naturally 
be  hurt  at  his  silence.  His  first  impulse  had 
been  to  send  the  amount  of  the  note  with  inter 
est  to  the  holder  of  it  by  some  third  person,  and 
so  to  dispose  of  the  suit  without  Miss  Judy's 
knowledge.  But  a  second  thought  made  plain 
to  him  that  the  money  was  not  what  the  Span 
iard  wanted,  and  that  such  a  step,  even  if  possi 
ble,  would  be  utterly  useless.  It  would  also  be 
worse  than  useless  to  appeal  to  Colonel  Field 
ing  or  to  try  to  learn  how  and  when  the  note 
had  come  into  Alvarado's  possession.  The  old 
man  had  always  been  a  child  in  heart ;  he  was 
now  a  child  in  mind.  And  then  —  the  unhappi- 
ness  of  John  Stanley's  youth  had  so  warped  his 
maturer  judgment  of  the  causes  of  his  misery  — 
he  had  never  been  able  to  hold  Alice  Fielding's 
father  quite  without  blame  for  her  sacrifice. 
No,  he  could  not  go  to  Colonel  Fielding,  not 
even  now,  in  his  age  and  feebleness,  not  even 
for  Miss  Judy's  sake. 

The  strong  often  find  it  hard  to  understand 

c? 

how  blamelessly  the  weak  may  yield  to  violence. 
The  wise,  for  all  their  wisdom,  hardly  ever  can 
see  how  innocence  itself  may  lead  the  unwise 
into  the  pit  digged  by  the  wicked.  No,  John 
Stanley  could  not  go  to  Colonel  Fielding,  who, 

356 


The  Upas  Tree 

although  but  as  an  innocent,  helpless  child  nim- 
self  now,  alas !  had  been  the  father  of  the  girl 
whom  he  had  loved,  and  who  had  been  given  to 
a  bloodthirsty  beast  in  human  form.  No,  he  could 
not  do  that,  even  for  Miss  Judy's  sweet  sake. 
So  John  Stanley  thought,  under  a  sudden  great 
wave  of  the  old  bitterness,  with  the  pain  of 
memory  rushing  back  as  if  the  flood  of  wretched 
ness  had  engulfed  him  but  yesterday.  He  could 
do  nothing  else  than  tell  Miss  Judy,  and  he  must 
tell  her  at  once — lest  she  hear  it  from  some  other 
source  —  and  so  gently  that  she  could  not  be 
frightened,  timid  as  she  was.  There  need  be 
no  trouble  about  the  mere  money ;  he  did  not 
consider  that  at  all ;  unknown  to  Miss  Judy,  he 
could  shield  her  from  that.  Nor  was  there  any 
danger  of  so  much  as  a  collision  of  words  with 
the  Spaniard,  now  or  at  any  time.  Nothing 
that  could  ever  come  to  pass  —  nothing  in  the 
vast  power  of  evil  —  could  make  him,  whose 
hands  had  once  been  innocently  dyed  in  a  fellow- 
creature's  blood,  lift  his  hand  against  another 
man,  or  force  him  to  utter  one  word  to  tempt 
another  to  raise  a  hand  against  himself. 

Little  by  little  the  shadow  had  deepened,  till 
Miss  Judy  saw  it  in  his  sensitive  face,  and  had 
begun  to  grow  uneasy  before  he  spoke. 

"  Do  you  know,  or,  rather,  did  you  ever 
know,  anything  about  your  father's  having 
given  his  note  to  Colonel  Fielding,"  he  said, 
finally,  when  he  could  wait  no  longer.  "  A 
note  of  hand,  and  without  security,  I  believe." 

Miss  Judy's  blue  eyes  opened  wide  in  startled 
357 


Oldfield 

surprise.  Then  she  blushed  vividly;  even  by  the 
poor  light  of  the  one  flickering  candle  the  judge 
could  see  the  rose  color  flush  her  fair  face,  which 
had  been  so  pale  of  late.  Her  father's  debts  had 
ever  been  a  sore  subject,  and,  although  it  was 
now  many  years  since  they  had  been  recalled 
to  her  memory  by  mention,  her  sensitiveness 
had  not  lessened  in  the  least. 

"  No,  I  do  not,"  she  said,  with  a  touch  of 
stiffness.  "  Our  father  was  not  in  the  habit 
of  speaking  to  us  of  business.  He  thought 
that  gentlewomen  should  be  shielded  from  all 
sordid  matters,"  she  added,  her  gentle  tone 
marking  a  wider  distance  than  had  ever  before 
existed  between  John  Stanley  and  herself. 

The  judge  felt  it,  and  realized  instantly  that 
he  had  made  a  bad  beginning,  one  very  far 
indeed  from  his  intention. 

"  But  why  do  you  ask? "  inquired  Miss  Judy, 
while  he  hesitated. 

"  My  dear  Miss  Judy,  nothing  was  further 
from  my  thoughts  than  to  startle  or  offend 
you;  but  you  know  that —  I  only  meant  to  tell 
you  that  —  that  a  small  matter  has  arisen  which 
—  that  an  unimportant  suit  has  been  filed  —  " 

Miss  Judy  arose  suddenly,  and  stood  before 
him  like  a  sentinel  guarding  a  post.  "  Am  I 
to  understand,  John,  that  some  one  is  suing  my 
father  for  debt,"  she  said  stiffly,  and  almost 
coldly ;  but  the  stiffness  and  coldness  now  were 
not  for  him.  "  Tell  me  all  about  it  at  once, 
please." 

"  It  is  nothing  to  trouble  you.  If  such  a 
358 


The  Upas  Tree 

note  be  in  existence,  it  must  have  been  barred 
by  the  statute  of  limitation  long  ago.  How 
long  has  it  been  since  your  father  died  ?  "  asked 
the  judge. 

"Over  twenty-five  years,  —  twenty-six  years 
this  coming  October."  And  as  Miss  Judy 
spoke  she  turned,  with  a  soft  sigh,  and  looked 
tenderly  at  Miss  Sophia,  and  was  glad  to  see 
that  she  was  fast  asleep,  sitting  straight  up  in 
her  chair. 

"  And  this  note,  if  given  at  all,  must,  of 
course,  have  been  drawn  before  that  date. 
Your  father  was  in  Virginia  a  long  time." 

"  Yes,"  sighed  Miss  Judy,  glancing  again 
iovingly  and  protectingly  at  Miss  Sophia.  "  It 
is  very  painful  to  sister  Sophia  and  myself  to 
remember  how  long." 

"  Don't  think  any  more  about  it,"  said  the 
judge.  "  There  can  be  no  necessity  for  your 
giving  it  another  thought.  The  length  of  time, 
the  statute  of  limitation,  protects  you.  The 
note  cannot  possibly  be  of  any  value." 

Miss  Judy  stood  still  for  a  moment  in  per 
plexed  thought,  with  her  little  hands  very  tightly 
clasped  before  her. 

"  But  if  my  father  gave  the  note,  —  if  he  ever 
owed  Colonel  Fielding  the  money,  and  it  never 
has  been  paid,  I  don't  see  that  time  can  make 
any  difference,"  she  said  at  last,  a  little  absently 
and  a  little  uncertainly,  as  if  she  did  not  yet 
quite  understand,  but  was,  nevertheless,  firmly 
feeling  her  way  to  the  light. 

"  Well,  most  people  would  think  it  made  a 
359 


Oldfield 

difference,"  the  judge  responded,  smiling  in 
spite  of  his  sympathy  with  her  troubled  per 
plexity. 

"  I  can't  believe  that  Colonel  Fielding  can 
have  meant  to  bring  such  a  suit.  He  loved  my 
father  and  honored  him  above  all  other  men. 
I  cannot  believe  that  he  would  knowingly 
smirch  the  memory  of  his  best  friend ;  unless, 
poor  old  man,  his  mind  is  entirely  gone.  And 
why  has  the  note  not  been  known  about  before  ? 
Why  have  I  never  been  told  —  all  these  years  ? 
Are  you  sure,  John,  that  there  is  no  mistake? 
Are  you  sure  that  the  colonel  has  actually 
brought  the  suit  ?  "  asked  Miss  Judy,  piteously, 
with  her  blue  eyes — clouded  and  filling  with 
tears  —  fixed  on  the  judge's  face. 

"  It  is  not  the  colonel,"  murmured  the  judge. 

"  Then  who  is  it  ?  "  persisted  Miss  Judy,  with 
growing  bewilderment  and  distress.  "  Who 
comes  at  this  late  day  claiming  that  my  father 
did  not  pay  what  he  owed,  —  when  he  could 
have  paid  ?  " 

"  Alvarado,"  John  Stanley  said,  in  so  low  a 
tone  that  she  barely  heard,  thus  forced  himself 
to  utter  the  name  of  the  Spaniard  for  the  first 
time  since  it  had  become  to  him  an  unspeak 
able  thing. 

"John  —  John,  I  humbly  beg  your  pardon. 
I  didn't  dream  —  oh,  my  son,"  Miss  Judy  cried, 
forgetting  her  own  trouble. 

She  ran  to  him  and  laid  her  tender  little 
hands  on  his  broad  shoulders,  and  gazed  into 
his  pale,  calm  face,  all  unconscious  that  her 

360 


The  Upas  Tree 

own  was  quivering  and  wet  with  tears  —  tears 
for  the  pain  which  she  saw  in  his  set  face, 
for  his  sacrificed  youth,  for  his  lost  happiness 
—  tears  most  of  all  for  gentle  Alice  Fielding, 
the  girl  whom  he  still  loved,  although  she  had 
rested  so  long  in  the  grave  of  the  broken 
hearted. 


361 


XXIII 

THE    BEGINNING    OF   THE    END 

MISFORTUNE  never  comes  singly  to  a  com 
munity  any  more  than  to  an  individual.  No 
life  anywhere  may  ever  stand  or  fall  quite 
alone,  so  are  the  living  all  bound  together.  In 
a  village  where  every  door  stands  wide  and  all 
lives  are  in  the  open,  and  where  no  high,  hard 
walls  rise  between  the  people,  —  as  they  do  in  a 
city,  —  the  bond  is  closer  than  it  can  be  else 
where.  So  that  the  uneasiness  which  the  judge 
communicated  so  unwillingly  to  Miss  Judy  on 
that  quiet  midsummer  night  was  the  beginning 
of  the  end  of  the  peace  of  many  of  the  good 
people  of  Oldfield,  for  a  long  time  afterward. 

Sorely  troubled,  Miss  Judy  had  lain  awake 
hour  after  hour  looking  into  the  darkness,  and 
trying  to  see  the  way  to  do  that  which  she  knew 
was  right.  She  had  seen  her  duty  distinctly 
enough  as  soon  as  the  judge's  meaning  was 
clear ;  the  only  uncertainty  was  as  to  the  means 
of  doing  it.  The  money  must  be  paid,  the 
length  of  time  during  which  it  had  been  owing 
only  making  the  payment  more  urgent.  No 
loophole  of  the  law  could  afford  any  means  of 
escape  to  a  sense  of  honor  as  fine  and  true  as 
hers.  Such  a  possibility  did  not  cross  her  mind 

362 


The  Beginning  of  the  End 

as  she  lay  thinking  in  the  silence  of  the  night, 
which  was  broken  only  by  the  peaceful  little 
puffing  sound  that  came  tranquilly  from  Miss 
Sophia's  side  of  the  big,  high  bed.  Miss  Judy 
again  softly  put  out  her  thin  little  hand  in 
the  dark,  and  softly  patted  her  sister's  round, 
plump  shoulder  with  protecting  tenderness,  as 
she  always  instinctively  caressed  her  when 
trouble  drew  near.  Come  what  would,  this 
sister,  so  tenderly  loved,  should  not  know  or 
suffer  any  privation  that  could  be  prevented. 
It  would  be  hard  to  keep  her  from  knowing 
if  the  payment  of  the  note  should  require  the 
entire  amount  of  the  next  pension  money,  which 
was  every  cent  they  would  have  for  months. 
Still,  Miss  Judy  remembered  how  she  had 
managed,  several  times  ere  this,  in  keeping 
other  unpleasant  things  from  her  sister's  knowl 
edge,  and  she  now7  lay  revolving  transparent 
schemes  and  innocent  fictions,  alternately 
smiling  and  sighing,  half  proud  and  half 
ashamed  of  her  own  deep  duplicity. 

The  result  of  the  night's  reflection  was  that 
she  went  early  on  the  next  morning  to  the  tavern 
to  see  Judge  Stanley,  hoping  to  be  able  to 
speak  to  him  before  he  left  his  room  for  the 
court-house.  But  some  little  delay  had  been 
required  —  so  at  least  Miss  Judy  imagined  —  in 
order  to  allay  Miss  Sophia's  suspicions,  and  the 
judge  was  already  gone  when  Miss  Judy  reached 
the  tavern.  She  hesitated  for  a  few  moments, 
blushing,  embarrassed,  confused,  and  utterly 
thrown  out  of  her  plans.  She  had  never  en- 

363 


Oldfield 

tered  the  court-house ;  she  had  never  heard  of 
a  gentlewoman's  doing  such  a  thing.  The  very 
thought  of  approaching  the  door  of  it  shocked 
her  as*  something  improper  and  almost  im 
modest.  And  yet  it  was  absolutely  necessary 
for  her  to  see  the  judge  immediately,  so  that 
she  might  tell  him  of  her  decision  before  the 
case  could  be  called.  She  would  do  almost 
anything  rather  than  allow  her  father's  honored 
name  to  be  dishonorably  mentioned  in  the  hear 
ing  of  the  people  of  Oldfield,  who  had  revered 
him  all  their  lives,  and  looked  up  to  him  as  the 
finest  of  gentlemen,  the  most  valiant  of  soldiers. 
Without  giving  herself  time  to  shrink  or  to 
flinch,  she  turned  desperately  and  hurried 
toward  the  court-house,  as  she  would  have 
marched  to  the  cannon's  mouth. 

The  court  was  barely  opened,  the  judge  was 
just  taking  his  seat  on  the  bench,  when  the 
sheriff  came  and  told  him  that  Miss  Judy  was 
at  the  door  and  would  like  to  see  his  Honor  if 
he  "would  kindly  step  outside."  The  sheriff 
smiled  in  bringing  him  the  message,  his  broad, 
kind  face  broadening  and  growing  kinder  with 
the  affectionate  indulgence  which  everybody 
always  felt  for  Miss  Judy's  harmless  peculiari 
ties.  Even  the  judge's  grave  face  relaxed  some 
what,  lighting  and  softening,  as  he  promptly 
arose  from  the  bench  and  went  to  do  the  little 
lady's  bidding.  He  found  her  on  the  other 
side  of  the  big  road,  and  not  at  the  door  of  the 
court-house,  where  he  had  expected  to  find  her. 
She  had,  indeed,  hastily  retreated  as  far  as  she 

364 


The  Beginning  of  the  End 

dared,  after  sending  for  him,  and  now  stood 
awaiting  him,  terrified  and  trembling,  at  being 
even  as  near  the  door  as  she  was  —  hovering 
like  a  bird  just  alighted  but  ready  to  take  flight. 
In  her  agitation  she  held  the  front  breadth  of 
her  best  bombazine  very,  very  high  indeed,  so 
that  her  neat  little  prunella  gaiters  were  plainly 
visible,  and  even  her  trim  ankles  were  quite 
distinctly  in  sight ;  and  there  were  also  unmis 
takable  glimpses  of  snow-white  ruffles  of  an 
antiquated  fashion,  like  the  delicate  feathers 
about  the  feet  of  a  white  bantam. 

"  I  wanted  to  see  you,  John,  before  the  suit 
could  come  up,"  she  began  pantingly  at  once. 
"  I  thought  it  all  over  last  night,  —  after  you 
were  gone." 

"  Everything  is  right,  Miss  Judy.  I  consid 
ered  the  matter  again  when  I  went  back  to  the 
tavern.  Don't  give  it  another  thought.  The 
suit  is  barred  by  limitation  long  ago,"  the  judge 
said  gently,  as  if  soothing  a  frightened  child. 

"  But  is  it  really  a  note  of  my  father's  ?  Did 
he  ever  owe  the  money  ?  And  is  it  true  that  the 
debt  never  has  been  paid  ?  That  is  what  I  wish 
to  know,"  persisted  Miss  Judy,  with  all  the  ear 
nestness  of  a  woman  who  knows  well  the  mean 
ing  of  her  words. 

Her  blue  eyes  were  uplifted  to  his  face,  and 
she  read  in  it  the  answer  which  he  would  have 
been  glad  to  withhold. 

"  Then  it  must  be  paid,"  she  said  firmly, 
promptly,  conclusively.  She  had  been  drifting 
out  of  her  depth  ever  since  the  stunned  plunge 

365 


Oldfield 

of  the  first  shock ;  but  she  now  felt  solid 
ground  once  more  under  her  feet.  "  There  is 
my  dear  and  honored  father's  pension  for  his 
services  in  the  War  for  Independence.  A  por 
tion  of  that  could  scarcely  be  better  used  than 
in  discharging  any  pecuniary  obligation  of  his, 
which  he  may  naturally  have  forgotten,  or 
chanced  to  overlook." 

This  was  said  loftily,  almost  carelessly,  as 
though  the  large  size  of  the  pension  made  any 
unexpected  demand  upon  it  a  mere  trifle,  and 
with  a  gentle,  sweet  look  of  pride.  The  judge 
could  not  help  smiling,  notwithstanding  that  he 
was  touched  and  even  troubled,  knowing  how 
grave  a  matter  any  call  for  money  must  be  to 
Miss  Judy.  Looking  down  upon  her  from  his 
great  height,  he  thought  he  never  before  had 
known  what  a  frail  pretty  little  creature  she  was, 
nor  how  deeply,  purely  blue  her  eyes  were,  with 
the  blue  of  fresh-blown  flax-flowers,  nor  how  like 
silver  floss  her  hair  was,  till  he  now  saw  it  new 
burnished  by  the  sunlight.  But  he  stood  in 
silence,  uncertain  what  to  say,  fearing  to  wound 
her. 

"  And  the  amount  of  the  note  ?  How  much 
is  it?"  Miss  Judy  asked  suddenly,  after  the  mo 
mentary  silence. 

Nothing  could  have  been  more  like  her,  more 
entirely  characteristic  of  her  whole  life,  than  that 
this  question,  which  would  have  been  the  first 
with  many,  should  have  been  the  last  with  her. 
Yet  now  that  it  had  occurred  to  her,  she  held 
her  breath  with  fear.  If  it  should  be  more  than 

366 


The  Beginning  of  the  End 

the  amount  of  the  whole  pension, — more  than 
she  had  or  ever  hoped  to  have  in  the  wide 
world,  —  what  should  she  do  then? 

"  It  was  drawn  for  a  hundred  dollars.  I 
have  not  yet  calculated  the  interest,"  the  judge 
answered  reluctantly. 

Miss  Judy  gasped  and  turned  white;  the 
earth  seemed  suddenly  sliding  beneath  her  feet. 
Then  in  another  instant  a  scarlet  tide  swept  the 
paleness  from  her  alarmed  face.  The  blood  in 
her  gentle  veins  was,  after  all,  the  blood  of  a 
soldier,  and  she  fought  on  to  the  last  trench. 

"  It  must  be  paid,  as  soon  as  possible,"  she 
said  formally,  as  if  speaking  to  a  stranger;  but 
she  laid  her  trembling  little  hand  in  John  Stan 
ley's  warm,  firm  clasp  with  a  look  of  perfect  love 
and  trust  before  she  turned  from  him  and  went 
on  her  troubled  way  homeward. 

He  stood  still  for  a  moment  when  she  had 
left  him,  gazing  after  the  little  figure  in  black 
fluttering  against  the  warm  wind.  Then  he 
turned  slowly  and  went  back  to  his  seat  on  the 
bench,  and  the  routine  of  the  court  forthwith 
began  to  drone  throughout  the  long,  hot  day. 
A  feeling  of  foreboding,  a  vague  dread  of  some 
unknown  calamity,  had  hung  over  him  when  he 
had  first  awakened  on  that  morning ;  as  though 
a  formless  warning  had  come  through  the  mists 
of  unremembered  dreams.  He  was  not  able  to 
cast  off  the  depression  which  it  caused,  and  the 
feeling  deepened  with  the  dragging  of  the  heavy 
hours.  But  it  wavered  still  without  distinct 
form.  It  had  nothing  to  do  with  his  hourly, 

367 


Oldfield 

momentary  expectation  of  seeing  the  Spaniard's 
threatening  face  and  wild  eyes  confronting  him 
through  the  gloom  of  the  low-ceiled  court-room. 
He  was  used  to  the  sight  and  he  never  had 
feared  it,  save  as  he  always  feared  himself  and 
the  enforced  shedding  of  blood.  The  only  un 
usual  thing  was  that  Alvarado  should  not  be  in 
his  accustomed  place  that  day,  as  he  invariably 
had  been  heretofore,  whenever  the  judge  had 
been  on  the  bench;  but  this  fact  gave  the  judge 
no  uneasiness,  he  hardly  thought  of  it  at  all,  for 
his  mind  was  rilled  with  other  things.  He  leaned 
his  aching  head  on  his  hand  as  the  business  of 
the  court  droned  dully  along  and  the  heat  grew 
steadily  greater.  He  thought,  vaguely,  that  it 
must  be  the  heat  and  the  scent  of  the  catalpa 
flowers  which  weighed  so  heavily  upon  him. 
For  a  few  large,  white  bells  swung  uncommonly 
late  amongst  the  heavy,  dusty  foliage  of  the 
catalpa  trees,  crowding  close  to  the  deep  win 
dows,  darkening  the  court-room  and  shutting 
out  every  breath  of  the  fitful,  sultry  breeze. 

He  left  the  court-house  as  soon  as  he  could 
get  away,  and  strolled  slowly  toward  the  far 
thest,  highest  hillside,  whither  he  often  went  at 
the  close  of  a  tiring  day.  The  warm  wind  had 
died  out  of  the  valley,  but  the  air  would,  so  he 
thought,  be  cooler  on  the  hilltop  ;  a  cool  breeze 
nearly  always  stirred  the  tall  cedars  of  the 
graveyard,  as  if  with  the  chill  air  of  the  tomb. 
He  found  the  gate  open,  as  it  always  was. 
There  was  never  any  need  for  closing  it. 
Within  were  no  gilded  bones  to  be  stolen :  with- 

368 


The  Beginning  of  the  End 

out  were  no  inhuman  robbers  of  graves.  So 
that  here  those  who  rented  within  had  nothing 
more  to  fear;  and  those  who  strove  without 
could  not  be  barred  when  they  also  came  to  stay. 

Leaning  on  the  fence,  he  turned  and  looked 
down  upon  the  drowsing  village ;  at  the  men, 
white  and  black,  who  were  going  homeward  with 
the  unhasting  pace  of  the  country;  at  the  black 
women  with  milk-pails,  crossing  the  back  lots 
whence  the  cows  were  calling ;  at  the  farmers, 
already  far  in  the  distance,  riding  away  from 
court;  at  the  great  road  wagons,  with  their 
mighty  teams  of  four  and  six  horses.  These 
great  wagons  were  the  huge  ships  of  this  vast 
inland  sea  of  wheat  and  corn  and  tobacco,  and 
now  but  lately  launched,  heavy-laden,  with  the 
newly  garnered  grain. 

And  then,  as  his  wandering,  absent  gaze  fell 
near  by,  upon  the  path  from  the  village  leading 
up  the  hillside,  he  saw  that  Lynn  and  Doris 
were  slowly  climbing  it  after  him  toward  the 
graveyard.  He  had  met  the  young  man  at  the 
tavern  on  the  previous  day,  and  he  had  known 
his  father.  He  had  always  known  Doris  in  the 
distant  way  in  which  he  knew  all  the  people  of 
Oldfield,  with  the  sole  exception  of  Miss  Judy. 
He  therefore  greeted  them  with  the  formal  cour 
tesy  that  he  gave  to  every  one ;  and  he  talked 
with  them  for  a  few  moments,  in  his  grave,  im 
personal  way,  but  he  was  disappointed  in  his 
wish  for  solitude,  and  he  lingered  no  longer  than 
good  breeding  required.  He  did  not  stay  to  go 
over  to  an  isolated  corner  of  the  graveyard  as  he 

2B  369 


Oldfield 

had  intended,  to  see  if  the  tangle  of  weeds  and 
briers,  which  makes  the 'desolation  of  neglected 
burial-grounds,  had  been  taken  away  from  one 
solitary  grave,  as  it  always  was  when  he  came 
and  never  at  any  other  time.  He  could 
not  do  this  in  the  presence  of  any  one,  so  that, 
lifting  his  hat  with  a  faint  smile,  he  now 
turned  his  face  toward  the  village  and  the 
tavern. 

At  the  foot  of  the  hill  he  happened  upon  the 
little  Frenchman,  who  sat  groaning  by  the 
roadside,  unable  to  walk  because  he  had 
wrenched  his  ankle,  spraining  it  very  badly, 
in  getting  over  the  fence. 

"  But  it  is  not  that  I  do  care  for  the  pain. 
Bah  !"  cried  monsieur,  with  a  Gallic  gesture  and 
an  inflection  that  belonged  to  no  nation  and 
was  wholly  his  own.  "  It  is  —  helas  !  —  the 
ploughing  for  the  spring  wheat.  A  man  may 
not  hobble  after  the  plough,  neither  may  he 
follow  with  crutches." 

"  Oh,  you  needn't  trouble  about  that.  There's 
plenty  of  time,  and  you  can't  plough,  anyway, 
until  a  rainfall  has  softened  the  ground,"  said 
the  judge,  kindly. 

"  The  black  man,  devoid  of  intelligence,  who 
tills  the  fields  of  monsieur  the  doctor,  ploughs 
to-day  in  the  dust.  Should  the  grain  of  the  fields 
of  monsieur  the  doctor  grow  quicker  and  thrive 
better  than  the  grain  of  the  fields  of  madame 
the  mistress,  whose  fields  I  myself  do  till,  then 
I  shall  surely  mortify." 

':  There's  nothing  to  be  done  in  the  fields 
37° 


The  Beginning  of  the  End 

now,"  the  judge  said,  trying  not  to  smile.  "  Let 
me  help  you,"  bending  over  and  offering  his 
strong  arm  and  broad  shoulder.  "You'll  be  all 
right  again  in  good  time  for  the  spring  wheat. 
A  sprained  ankle  is  no  Waterloo!" 

The  Frenchman  shrunk,  dropping  away  from 
the  outstretched  arm  as  though  it  had  struck 
him  down.  His  face,  open  and  transparent  as 
a  child's,  had  been  confidingly  upturned ;  now 
it  fell,  reddened  and  clouded  with  anger,  indig 
nation,  and  shame.  Falling  back,  he  tried  at 
once  to  rise  again,  only  to  sink  —  groaning  and 
helpless  —  more  prone  than  before,  while  hiss 
ing  through  his  clenched  teeth  something 
about  le  sentiment  du  fer. 

"  It  is  the  fatal  misfortune  of  my  father  that 
you  do  insult!"  he  said  fiercely,  in  English, 
striving  vainly  to  maintain  an  icy  civility. 
"  When  it  is  that  I  may  again  stand  on  my  feet, 
your  Highness  will  perhaps  —  " 

"  Come,  come,  Beauchamp.  You  are  suffer 
ing.  Here,  let  me  help  you." 

"  Jamais!  Jamais!  —  not  to  ze  death  ! "  cried 
monsieur,  shrieking  with  mingled  rage  and 
pain. 

The  judge,  from  his  calm  height,  looked 
silently  down  on  the  pathetic  little  form 
stretched  at  his  feet,  at  the  gray  head  resting 
now  on  the  hard  earth,  and,  seeing  the  dignity, 
the  tragedy,  which  strangely  invested  it,  a 
great  surge  uplifted  the  deep  pity  for  the 
mystery  and  the  sorrow  of  living  which  always 
filled  his  sad  heart. 


Oldfield 

"  As  you  please  about  that,  Mr.  Beauchamp. 
But  you  must  allow  me  to  pull  off  your  boot 
before  your  leg  becomes  worse  swollen.  You 
are  risking  permanent  injury  by  keeping  it  on; 
the  hurt  seems  more  serious  than  any  mere 
sprain,"  he  said,  with  the  gentle  patience  that 
great  strength  always  has  for  real  weakness. 

And  then  this  stately  gentleman,  this  famous 
judge,  knelt  down  in  the  dust  of  the  common 
highway,  beside  this  poor  distraught,  angry, 
resisting,  atom  of  humanity,  and  tenderly  re 
leased  the  injured  ankle  from  the  pressure  that 
was  torturing  it. 

"  Now,  that's  better,"  he  said,  rising,  and  look 
ing  round  in  some  perplexity.  "  Ah,  yonder  is 
a  cart  coming  up  the  big  road.  I  can  get  the 
driver  of  it  to  take  you  home." 

He  spoke  to  the  negro  who  was  driving  the 
swaying  oxen,  and  gave  him  some  money,  and 
stood  waiting  until  he  saw  the  Frenchman 
lifted  carefully  and  safely  into  the  cart,  and 
well  started  on  the  way  toward  his  home. 
Then  the  judge  went  on  his  own  lonely,  home 
less  road  to  the  tavern.  The  lengthening  shad 
ows  of  the  hills  were  already  darkening  the 
valley,  although  a  wonderful  golden  light  still 
lingered  above  the  summits,  making  the  new 
moon  look  wan.  There  was  only  daylight 
enough  for  the  judge  to  see  old  lady  Gordon 
sitting  alone  at  her  window,  and  seeing  her, 
he  was  reminded  that  it  was  his  duty  to  tell  her 
of  the  accident  which  had  befallen  the  manager 
of  her  farm. 

372 


The  Beginning  of  the  End 

She  looked  up  suddenly,  almost  eagerly,  at 
the  sound  of  his  approach,  and  peered  into  the 
gloaming  with  the  sad  intentness  of  weary 
eyes  which  are  no  longer  sure  of  what  they 
see.  When  she  recognized  the  judge,  she 
suddenly  settled  heavily  back  in  her  chair  with 
an  abrupt  movement  of  angry  disappointment. 
She  did  not  thank  him  for  coming  to  tell  her, 
and  she  did  not  ask  him  to  come  in.  She 
merely  nodded  with  the  rude  taciturnity  which, 
with  her,  always  marked  some  disturbance  of 
mind. 


373 


XXIV 

OLD    LADY    GORDON'S    ANGER 

FOR  this  breaker  from  a  sea  of  troubles, 
gradually  overspreading  all  Oldfield,  had  now 
gone  so  far  that  it  had  stirred,  at  last,  even  the 
long  unstirred  level  of  old  lady  Gordon's  vast 
indifference. 

It  had  been  many  a  long  year  since  she  had 
been  moved  to  such  anger  as  she  was  feeling 
on  that  day ;  few  things  seemed  to  her  worth 
real  anger;  she  accepted  almost  everything 
with  careless,  almost  amiable,  tolerance.  Self 
ishness  as  absolute  as  hers  often  wears  a 
manner  very  like  good  nature,  because  it  is 
far  too  great  to  be  moved  by  trifles. 

Poor  old  lady  Gordon  !  She  had  managed 
to  sink  her  disappointment  in  self-indulgence, 
as  wretchedness  too  often  sinks  itself  in  opium. 
She  had  eaten  rich  food  because  the  eating 
of  it  helped  to  pass  the  dull  days  of  her  dis 
tasteful  life ;  she  had  read  all  the  novels  within 
her  reach  —  good,  bad,  and  indifferent  —  be 
cause  reading  was  not  so  tiresome  as  thinking, 
when  there  was  nothing  pleasant  to  think  about ; 
she  had  laughed  at  many  follies  and  mistakes 
which  she  saw  clearly  enough,  because  it 
seemed  to  her  useless  to  try  to  prevent  folly 
or  the  making  of  mistakes. 

374 


Old  Lady  Gordon's  Anger 

And  yet  none  knew  the  true  from  the  false 
better  than  this  honest,  scornful  old  pagan,  who 
had  buried  more  than  one  talent,  more  than 
ordinary  intelligence,  under  habitual  sloth  of 
mind  and  body ;  and  none  had  a  more  genuine 
respect  for  all  that  was  finest  and  highest.  But 
her  own  early  striving  toward  it  had  met  too 
complete  a  defeat  for  her  —  being  what  she  was 
—  to  go  on  striving  or  to  think  it  worth  while 
for  others  to  strive.  A  nature  like  hers  can 
never  submit,  unembittered  and  unhardened,  to 
wrong  and  unhappiness ;  nor  is  it  ever  winged 
by  the  spiritual  so  that  it  may  rise  above  its 
false  place  in  the  world.  It  can  only  beat  itself 
against  the  stone  wall  of  environment,  or  recoil 
in  fatalistic  indifference.  And  in  this  last  poor 
old  lady  Gordon  had  found  refuge  so  long  ago 
that  she  had  quite  forgotten  the  pain  —  and 
the  pleasure  —  which  comes  with  suffering 
through  loving. 

And  then,  after  she  had  thus  lived  through 
many  wasted  days,  and  many  empty  nights,  it 
seemed  as  if  this  grandson  had  come  at  the 
eleventh  hour  to  open  the  door  of  her  prison- 
house.  She  had  not  believed  it  at  first ;  more 
than  a  half-century  is  so  long  to  wait  for  every 
thing  which  the  heart  most  craves,  that  it  can 
not  believe  at  once  when  its  supreme  desire 
seems  about  to  be  granted  at  last.  But,  never 
theless,  old  lady  Gordon's  pleasure  and  pride 
in  her  grandson  had  grown  fast  and  steadily 
through  those  perfect  days  and  weeks  of  sum 
mer.  It  had  pleased  her  more  and  more  to 

375 


Oldfield 

hear  his  strong,  gay  young  voice  ringing 
through  the  silence  of  the  dull  old  house.  It 
had  pleased  her  more  and  more  to  look  at  his 
bright,  handsome  young  face  across  the  table, 
which  had  been  lonely  so  long.  It  had  pleased 
her  most  of  all  to  have  his  cheering  young  pres 
ence —  so  overflowing  with  hope  and  spirits  — 
at  her  side,  through  the  dreary  hours  of  the 
lingering  twilight,  when  she  had  been  forced, 
in  the  solitude  of  the  old  time,  to  face  alone 
the  dreaded  muster  of  disappointment's  mock 
ing  spectres. 

Thus  had  old  lady  Gordon  regarded  her 
grandson  in  the  beginning  of  her  acquaintance 
with  him.  But  she  gradually  began  to  know 
him,  to  see  him  as  he  really  was,  to  think  that 
he  might  be  what  he  meant  to  be.  And  so, 
little  by  little,  this  hard,  embittered,  lonely  old 
soul  came  finally  to  believe  that  a  grudging 
fate  was,  after  all,  about  to  grant  to  her  age  the 
true  son  of  her  own  heart,  of  her  great  pride, 
of  her  unbounded  ambition  —  the  son  whom 
it  had  so  cruelly  denied  to  her  youth  and  matu 
rity.  Then  there  came  a  strange  and  piteous 
stirring  of  all  her  long-numbed  sensibilities ; 
a  powerful,  and  even  terrible,  uprising  of  all 
her  intensest  feelings.  It  was  as  if  a  mighty 
old  grapevine,  long  stripped  of  fruit  and 
foliage,  long  fallen  away  from  every  living 
thing,  long  trailing  along  the  earth  —  deeply 
covered  with  mould  and  weeds  —  as  if  such  a 
mighty,  twisted,  hard  old  grapevine  were  sud 
denly  to  put  forth  strong  new  tendrils,  and, 

376 


Old  Lady  Gordon's  Anger 

entwining  them  around  a  young  tree,  should 
thus  begin  to  rise  again  toward  the  last  light 
of  life's  sunset. 

And  now,  just  as  this  late  warmth  was 
sending  its  rays  through  the  chill  veins  of 
unloved  and  unloving  old  age,  — -  the  coldest 
and  the  saddest  thing  in  the  whole  world, — 
old  lady  Gordon  once  more  found  herself  fac 
ing  the  same  danger  which  had  wrecked  all  her 
earlier  hopes.  She  had  shut  her  keen  old  eyes 
to  it  at  first,  and  had  merely  smiled,  although 
she  had  seen  her  grandson's  interest  in  Doris 
quite  clearly  ever  since  its  commencement. 
The  girl  seemed  to  her  so  far  beneath  her 
grandson  in  station  as  to  be  safely  outside  any 
serious  consideration.  For  no  Brahmin  was 
ever  more  deeply  imbued  with  the  prejudice  of 
caste  than  this  slothful  old  lady  Gordon ;  and  no 
consideration  other  than  a  serious  one  could 
disturb  her  in  the  least.  Moreover,  she  rested 
for  a  while  upon  her  confidence  in  Lynn's 
singleness  of  purpose,  believing  in  his  deter 
mination  to  allow  nothing  to  turn  him  from 
the  pursuit  of  his  ambition.  But  later,  as 
the  summer  days  went  by  and  she  saw  him 
giving  more  and  more  of  his  time  to  this 
yellow-haired,  brown-eyed,  sweet-spoken,  soft- 
mannered  daughter  of  the  village  news-monger, 
and  less  and  less  to  the  thought  and  study 
of  his  chosen  profession,  a  doubt  entered  her 
mind,  and  began  to  rankle  like  a  thorn  in 
the  flesh.  As  she  was  left  more  and  more 
alone,  till  she  had  scarcely  any  of  her  grand- 

377 


Oldfield 

son's  society,  which  was  now  become  so  sweet, 
she  had  time  to  remember  the  folly  and 
weakness  of  his  father,  and  the  folly  and 
wickedness  of  his  grandfather.  These  dark 
memories,  surging  back,  as  she  brooded  in 
solitude,  brought  old  bitterness  to  her  new 
uneasiness  ;  a'nd  yet,  recalling  many  mistakes 
which  she  had  made  in  the  old  time  through  the 
rashness  of  inexperience,  she  still  kept  silence, 
resolving  not  to  fall  into  such  errors  again.  She 
did  not  speak  slightingly  of  the  girl,  recalling 
that  as  one  of  her  most  fatal  errors ;  and  she  was 
also  withheld  by  a  grim  sense  of  justice  which 
was  always  lurking,  half-forgotten,  within  her 
hard  old  breast.  She  accordingly  wisely  con 
fined  herself  to  passing  comments  upon  Sidney, 
and  to  occasional  references  to  Uncle  Watty, 
directing  most  of  her  witty,  satirical  talk  toward 
love  and  marriage  in  the  abstract.  One  day  she 
read  Lynn  a  couple  of  lines  from  an  old  novel 
which  said  that :  — 

"  Falling  in  love  is  like  falling  downstairs ; 
it  is  always  an  accident,  and  nearly  always  a 
misfortune." 

She  had  many  such  dry  and  stinging  epi 
grams  at  her  sharp  tongue's  end  in  those  days, 
when  she  was  using  wit,  satire,  irony,  and  ridi 
cule  as  weapons  to  defend  her  late-coming  hap 
piness.  Poor  old  lady  Gordon !  it  was  very 
hard.  Selfishness  always  makes  opposition  bit 
terly  hard,  and  it  is  hard  indeed  to  have 
been  compelled  to  wait  through  the  space  of  a 
generation  for  the  supreme  desire  of  the  heart. 

378 


Old  Lady  Gordon's  Anger 

It  was  harder  than  a  nature  so  imperious  as 
hers  could  endure,  to  meet  such  ignoble  inter 
ference  at  this  eleventh  hour,  now  that  its 
late  fulfilment  seemed  so  near,  now  that  she 
herself  had  so  little  time  for  longer  waiting. 

So  thus  it  was  that  scornful  impatience  gradu 
ally  gave  way  to  bitter  anger,  to  the  fierce,  com 
pelling  anger  of  the  autocrat  long  unused  to 
having  her  will  crossed,  much  less  lightly  set 
aside,  and,  least  of  all,  to  having  it  totally  disre 
garded.  It  was  lightly  and  even  gayly  that  Lynn 
had  gone  his  own  way  in  opposition  to  hers ;  but 
when  their  wills  had  clashed  slightly  once  or 
twice,  old  lady  Gordon  had  seen  that  they  were 
made  of  the  same  piece  of  cold  steel.  She  had 
recognized  the  fact  with  a  queer  mixture  of 
pride  and  displeasure,  but  the  recognition  had 
turned  her  away  from  all  thought  of  force,  and 
she  had  henceforth  resorted  to  subtler  measures. 
She  had  tried  —  with  a  gentleness  so  foreign  to 
her  nature  that  it  was  pathetic  —  to  keep  him  at 
her  side,  as  a  tigress  might  softly  stretch  out  a 
paw  —  every  cruel  claw  sheathed  in  velvet  — 
to  draw  a  cub  away  from  danger.  But  this 
too  failed,  as  the  efforts  of  the  old  to  hold  the 
young  always  must  fail  when  nature  calls. 
And  thus  it  was  that  the  lingering  twilights 
of  those  last  summer  days  found  old  lady 
Gordon  again  alone,  as  the  judge  had  found 
her ;  again  solitary  at  lonely  nightfall ;  again 
—  with  the  long  night  so  near  —  gazing  into 
the  gathering  darkness  at  the  ghostly  assem 
blage  of  all  her  dead  hopes. 

379 


Oldfield 

Lynn  did  not  come  that  night  until  she  had 
turned  and  tossed  through  more  than  one  sleep 
less  hour.  At  breakfast  the  next  morning  they 
had  little  to  say  to  one  another.  It  was  nearly 
always  so  now,  although  Lynn  had  scarcely 
noted  the  fact  that  all  ease  and  confidence 
had  gone  out  of  their  companionship.  He  was 
always  in  haste  of  late  to  get  away ;  every  morn 
ing  he  went  earlier  to  join  Doris,  forgetting  all 
about  the  law  books  which  lay  on  the  table  in 
his  room,  and  which  his  grandmother  used  to 
go  and  look  at  and  turn  over  —  most  piteously. 
She  now  used  rarely  to  stir  from  her  chair  ex 
cept  to  do  this.  Every  evening  he  was  later 
in  leaving  Doris,  and  slower  in  coming  home ; 
and  he  never  lingered  now  on  the  dark  porch 
to  think  over  his  plans.  And  day  by  day 
old  lady  Gordon's  secret  wrath  burned  more 
fiercely,  although  she  still  kept  it  carefully 
covered  with  the  ashes  of  assumed  indifference. 
But  on  the  evening  of  the  judge's  visit  her  long- 
smouldering  anger  had,  for  the  first  time,  burst 
into  flame  beyond  her  control.  She  had  seen 
Lynn  and  Doris  passing  on  their  way  to  the 
graveyard ;  she  had  watched  the  flutter  of  the 
girl's  white  skirt  at  her  grandson's  side  all  along 
the  slow,  winding  way  up  to  the  high  hilltop. 
The  sight  had  been  as  wind  and  fuel  to  raging 
fire.  It  was  well  for  the  judge  that  he  had  not 
lingered  while  the  flames  thus  raged ;  it  was 
well  for  Lynn  that  he  had  been  for  the  moment 
beyond  the  reach  of  his  grandmother's  burning 
contempt;  it  was  well  for  Doris  —  though  as 

380 


Old  Lady  Gordon's  Anger 

innocent  of  all  offence  as  one  of  the  white 
lambs  feeding  on  the  hillside  —  well  that  her 
return  was  unseen  in  the  gloaming ;  it  had  been 
well  —  most  of  all  —  for  this  fierce  old  spirit 
itself  that  certain  strong,  dark  drops,  from  the 
bag  hanging  at  the  head  of  her  bed,  could  lay 
for  a  few  hours  the  mocking  ghosts  of  dead 
hopes,  all  slain  by  folly  and  weakness,  even  as 
this  last  one  seemed  now  being  put  to  death 
before  her  very  eyes. 

The  morning  found  her  spent  in  strength; 
and  the  fire  of  her  anger,  although  uncooled, 
was  again  covered  by  the  silence  of  exhaustion. 
Moods  of  silence  were,  however,  not  unusual 
with  her,  and  Lynn  was  too  deeply  absorbed  in 
his  own  pleasant  thoughts  to  observe  his  grand 
mother's  ominous  brooding.  When  the  meal 
was  over,  with  the  exchange  of  hardly  a  dozen 
thoughtless  words  upon  his  part,  and  of  taciturn 
responses  upon  her  side,  Lynn  took  up  his  hat 
and  went  out  of  the  house  and  toward  the  gate. 
Pausing  under  the  cypress  tree,  he  looked  back 
and  smiled  and  waved  his  hand ;  and  then  he 
went  swiftly  along  the  big  road  toward  the 
silver  poplars. 

Old  lady  Gordon  sat  quite  still  in  her  chair, 
gazing  after  him  with  darkly  drawn  brows,  with 
her  turkey-wing  fan  lying  forgotten  on  her  lap, 
and  her  novel  cast,  neglected,  on  a  chair  by  her 
side.  She  had  not  told  Lynn  of  the  accident  to 
the  manager  of  the  farm;  she  had  not  spoken 
of  her  intended  visit  to  the  Frenchman  on  that 
morning ;  she  had  not  asked  her  grandson  to  go 

381 


Oldfield 

with  her,  although  she  walked  with  difficulty  and 
even  with  pain,  and  longed  with  age's  helpless 
ness  to  have  him  near  by  to  lean  upon.  When 
Lynn  was  quite  out  of  sight  she  arose  —  a  fine, 
majestic  old  figure  in  her  loose  white  drapery — 
and  started  across  the  fields,  making  her  slow, 
painful  way  to  the  Beauchamp  cottage.  She 
found  the  Frenchman  in  bed,  and,  seeing  how 
seriously  he  was  hurt,  and  remembering  the  farm 
work  which  must  go  undirected,  she  was  not  in 
a  better  humor  when  she  turned  her  face  home 
ward.  Still  she  held  her  wrath  with  an  iron  hand, 
exercising  perhaps  the  greatest  self-control  that 
she  had  ever  brought  to  bear  upon  anything 
during  her  whole  life.  She  even  forced  herself 
to  make  some  gruffly  civil  response  when  Lynn 
came  back  to  dinner  at  noon,  and  hastened  away 
again  as  soon  as  he  could,  with  a  few  hurried, 
happy  words  and  another  gay  smile  and  careless 
wave  of  his  hand.  But  all  through  the  after 
noon  hours  of  that  long,  dull,  solitary  day  old 
lady  Gordon's  anger  grew  as  thunder  clouds 
gather,  and  when,  after  supper,  Lynn  again  took 
up  his  hat  and  turned,  intending  again  to  leave 
her,  the  brewing  tempest  suddenly  burst  upon 
him. 

"  Have  you  ever  stopped  to  think  where 
all  this  philandering  must  lead  ?  It's  high 
time,"  she  broke  out,  hoarse  with  passionate 
rage. 

The  young  man,  holding  his  hat  in  his  hand, 
wheeled  and  looked  at  his  grandmother  in  utter 
amazement,  startled,  almost  alarmed,  by  the 

382 


Old  Lady  Gordon's  Anger 

violence  of  her  tone  and  by  the  suddenness  of 
the  attack. 

"I  don't  understand.  I  don't  know  in  the 
least  what  you  mean,"  he  said  honestly  enough, 
and  yet,  even  as  he  spoke,  a  glimmering  con 
sciousness  came  into  his  open  face. 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  do.  You  know  perfectly  well, 
but  I'll  put  it  plainer  if  you  want  me  to,"  she 
went  on,  roughly,  sneeringly. 

Lynn  reddened,  putting  up  his  hand  with  a 
gesture  imposing  silence.  "  Perhaps  I  do  un 
derstand  something  of  what  you  mean,"  he  said 
hesitatingly,  with  the  hesitation  which  every 
right-minded  man  feels  at  referring  —  however 
distantly  —  in  any  such  connection  to  a  girl 
whom  he  reveres.  "  And  if  I  do  understand 
anything  of  what  you  mean,  you  must  allow  me 
to  tell  you  that  there  has  been  no  philandering, 
nor  any  semblance  of  it." 

"Then  what  do  you  call  it?"  she  demanded, 
with  even  greater  violence  and  roughness  than 
before.  "  May  I  ask  how  you  characterize  this 
perpetual  dawdling,  all  day  and  nearly  all  night, 
at  the  heels  of  a  girl  whose  rank  is  hardly  above 
that  of  a  servant  —  a  girl  whom  even  the  son  of 
your  father,  or  the  grandson  of  your  grandfather, 
could  scarcely  be  fool  or  rake  enough  to  think 
of  —  except  as  something  to  philander  after." 

She  hurled  the  brutal  words  at  him  as  she 
would  have  thrown  stones  in  his  face,  far  too 
furious  to  think  or  to  care  how  they  might 
hurt. 

He  recoiled,  shocked,  revolted,  by  the  sight  of 
383 


Oldfield 

such  unrestrained  anger  in  age.  It  seemed  an 
incredibly  monstrous  thing.  Then  he  stood 
still,  looking  at  her  with  a  cool  courage  which 
matched  her  flaming  rage.  He  now  moved 
farther  away,  but  it  was  solely  because  he  felt  a 
sudden  extreme  repulsion. 

"  Pardon  me,"  he  said  icily,  moving  still  far 
ther,  still  nearer  the  open  door.  "  It  is  you  who 
do  not  understand.  There  certainly  is  nothing 
that  any  one  else  can  possibly  have  misunder 
stood.  I  have  been  scrupulously  careful  all 
along  that  there  should  not  be.  I  have  guarded 
every  act,  every  word,  every  look  —  " 

Old  lady  Gordon  burst  out  laughing  like  a 
coarse  old  man  deep  in  his  cups. 

"  Oh  ho  !  "  she  scoffed.  "  So  that's  how  the 
matter  stands,  is  it  ?  How  high-minded !  how 
prudently  virtuous !  How  perfectly  Sidney's 
daughter  must  understand.  How  highly  the 
girl  must  appreciate  it.  Of  course  she  does 
understand  and  appreciate  your  prudence, 
your  thought  —  of  yourself.  What  woman 
wouldn't?  Even  a  simpleton  of  a  country  girl 
must  have  been  overcome  by  it.  She  can't  help 
forgiving  you  for  trying  your  best  to  make  her 
fall  in  love  with  you,  if  you  have  been  as  stead 
fast —  as  you  say  you  have  —  in  warning  her 
that  you  didn't  mean  to  fall  in  love  with  her. 
How  she  must  honor  and  admire  you !  "  she 
taunted,  with  something  masculine  in  her  voice, 
and  laughing  again  like  a  coarse  old  man. 

The  shafts  of  her  merciless  scorn  pierced  the 
armor  of  the  young  man's  cool  calmness  like 

384 


Old  Lady  Gordon's  Anger 

arrows  barbed  with  fire.  It  seemed  to  him  for 
an  instant  as  though  flame  suddenly  wrapped 
him  from  head  to  foot.  He  felt  literally  scorched 
by  a  burning  sense  of  shame,  although,  dazed 
and  bewildered,  he  could  not  yet  see  whence  it 
came.  The  blood  rushed  into  his  face,  into  his 
head ;  his  eyes  fell ;  he  could  not  keep  them  on 
his  grandmother's  mocking,  scornful  face. 

Old  lady  Gordon's  fiery  gaze  did  not  fall,  but 
it  softened.  A  strange  look,  one  which  was 
hard  to  read,  came  to  replace  the  expression  of 
contemptuous  anger.  There  was  still  some 
scorn  in  it,  yet  the  scorn  was  curiously  mingled 
with  vanity. 

"Well,  after  all,  you  are  more  like  me  than 
you're  like  the  men  of  the  family,"  she  said  ab 
ruptly,  with  a  sudden  return  to  her  usual  manner. 

Lynn  could  not  speak  ;  he  could  not  look  at 
her.  He  silently  bent  down  and  took  up  his 
hat, which  had  dropped  from  his  nerveless  grasp, 
and  with  bowed  head  he  went  silently  out  into 
the  shielding  dusk. 


385 


XXV 

THE    REVELATION    OF   THE    TRUTH 

THE  first  wound  received  by  true  self-respect 
is  always  a  terrible  thing.  And  the  truer  the 
self-esteem  and  the  better  founded,  the  more  the 
slightest  blow  must  bruise  it.  The  deepest 
stabbing  of  the  derelict  can  never  hurt  so  much 
or  be  so  hard  to  heal.  It  may  indeed  be  doubted 
whether  a  touch  on  the  real  quick  of  a  fine 
sense  of  honor  ever  entirely  heals. 

A  man  coarser  and  duller  than  Lynn  Gordon 
was,  less  high-minded,  less  essentially  honora 
ble,  could  not  have  suffered  as  he  was  suffering 
when  he  went  out  that  night  into  the  dusky 
peace  of  the  drowsing  village.  Yet  he  could 
hardly  tell  at  first  whence  came  the  blow  which 
had  wounded  him  so  deeply.  The  suddenness 
of  the  arraignment  had  dazed  him;  the  violence 
of  the  attack  had  stunned  him ;  so  that  he  was 
conscious  mainly  of  a  strange  bewilderment  of 
pain  and  humiliation,  as  though  he  had  been 
struck  down  in  the  dark. 

He  went  through  the  gate  as  if  walking  in  a 
distressful  dream,  and  turned  toward  the  silver 
poplars,  as  he  had  turned  at  that  time  of  the 
evening  for  many  weeks,  but  turning  through 
sheer  force  of  habit,  scarcely  knowing  whither 

386 


The  Revelation  of  the  Truth 

ne  went.  It  was  not  yet  quite  nightfall ;  the  star 
light  was  just  beginning  to  meet  the  twilight, 
only  commencing  to  arch  vast  violet  spaces 
high  above  the  dim  trees  on  the  far-folded  hills. 
The  silvery  mists,  ever  lurking  among  the 
fringing  willows  of  the  stream  murmuring 
through  the  meadows,  were  already  rising  to 
cloud  the  lowlands  with  fleecy  whiteness,  radi 
antly  starred  with  fireflies.  The  few  languid 
sounds  of  living  heard  in  the  day,  now  had  all 
passed  away  before  the  coming  of  night.  Only 
the  plaintive  song  of  the  white  cricket  came 
from  the  misty  distance ;  only  the  lonely  chime 
of  the  brown  cricket  rang  from  the  near-by 
grass;  only  the  chilling  prophecy  of  the  katy 
did's  cry  shrilled  through  the  peaceful  silence 
of  the  warm,  fragrant  gloaming. 

But  the  softest  dusk  of  heaven,  the  com- 
pletest  peace  of  earth,  is  powerless  to  calm  the 
storm  which  beats  upon  the  spirit.  Lynn  Gor 
don  strode  on  as  though  to  confront  the  full 
glare  of  life's  fiercest  turmoil.  He  was  driven 
by  such  stinging  humiliation  as  he  had  never 
expected  to  know ;  he  was  goaded  by  such  pain 
of  mind  as  made  his  very  body  ache.  So  that 
he  thus  went  forward,  swiftly,  fiercely,  for  a  score 
of  paces,  and  then  he  stopped  and  stood  still, 
arrested  by  a  sudden  thought  which  was  as 
blasting  as  a  flash  of  lightning.  For  an  instant 
his  hot  and  heavy-beating  heart  seemed  to  cease 
its  rapid  throbbing  and  to  grow  suddenly  cold 
with  sickening  fear.  Another  moment  and  he 
felt  as  if  a  living  flame  wrapped  him  again  from 

387 


Oldfield 

head  to  foot,  so  intolerable  was  the  burning 
shame  that  flashed  over  him.  Had  Doris  seen 
him  —  as  his  grandmother  had  seen  him  ?  Had 
Doris  recognized  in  his  guarded  attitude  toward 
her  an  intended  warning  to  guard  her  own  heart 
—  as  his  grandmother  had  said?  Had  Doris 
felt  —  as  his  grandmother  had  charged  —  that 
he  had  thus  offered  her  the  most  unpardonable 
indignity  that  an  honorable  man  can  offer  a 
modest  woman  ? 

Under  the  shock  of  the  thought  he  recoiled 
from  it  as  too  monstrous  to  be  true.  That 
exquisite,  spotless  child !  That  sacred  em 
bodiment  of  peerless  beauty!  He  could  have 
groaned  aloud  as  the  unbearable  thought  clung 
like  a  flaming  garment.  Yet  he  could  not  cast 
it  from  him  ;  and  out  of  the  smoke  of  memory 
there  now  came  swirling  many  little  half- 
forgotten  incidents.  Small  things,  which  had 
then  seemed  at  the  time  to  be  trifles  light  as 
air,  now  came  back,  seeming  confirmations 
strong  as  proof  of  holy  writ.  Under  the  light 
of  this  fiery  revelation  one  recollection  stood 
out  more  distinctly  than  any  other.  He  re 
membered  giving  Doris  some  simple  little  gift. 
He  saw  again  in  this  dim,  unpeopled  dusk, 
even  more  clearly  than  he  had  seen  it  then, 
the  bewitching  brightness  of  her  beautiful  face, 
the  soft  radiance  of  her  lovely,  uplifted  eyes, 
as  he  had  put  the  bauble  in  her  eager  little 
hands.  And  now,  while  he  still  saw  her  thus, 
he  heard  his  own  voice  saying  an  incredible 
thing.  He  now  heard  himself  —  not  some  dull, 

388 


The  Revelation  of  the  Truth 

blundering,  brutal  dolt — saying  something 
vague  about  its  being  strictly  an  "  impersonal  " 
sort  of  present. 

Ay,  he  heard  again  the  very  tone  in  which 
his  own  voice  uttered  these  inconceivable 
words.  And  then  he  saw  again  the  dawning 
bewilderment  which  crept  over  the  sunny  trans 
parency  of  the  exquisite  face ;  the  slow  shadow 
ing  of  the  soft  dark  eyes,  raised  so  frankly,  so 
confidingly  to  his;  the  quick-coming,  quicker- 
going,  quiver  of  the  sweet  rose-red  lips.  At 
last,  as  though  the  glass  through  which  he  had 
seen  darkly  were  miraculously  become  as  clear 
as  crystal,  he  saw  again  the  quivering  fall  of  the 
long,  curling  lashes  over  the  lily  cheeks,  which 
reddened  suddenly,  as  they  rarely  did,  before 
growing  swiftly  whiter  than  ever;  the  sudden 
proud  lifting  of  the  golden  head,  which  natu 
rally  drooped  like  some  rare  orchid  too  heavy 
for  its  delicate  waxen  stem :  the  brave,  steady, 
upward  look  from  the  soft  eyes,  now  suddenly 
grown  very  bright:  the  abrupt  laying  down  of 
the  simple  gift  by  the  little  hand,  which  was 
always  so  gently  deliberate  in  all  that  it  did : 
the  hasty  moving  away  of  the  slender  'form, 
which  had,  up  to  that  time,  rested  at  his  side 
in  the  perfect  trust  which  only  the  timid  ever 
give. 

All  this  rushed  back,  bringing  an  unendura 
ble  self-revelation.  The  firmest,  deepest  founda 
tions  of  his  character  were  shaken  in  his  own 
estimation.  His  pride  of  uprightness,  his  pride 
of  intelligence,  his  pride  of  good  breeding,  his 

389 


Oldfield 

belief  in  his  own  right  feeling,  his  reliance  upon 
his  own  quickness  of  perception,  his  faith  in  his 
fineness  of  sensibility,  —  all  these  now  stood 
convicted  of  weakness  and  falsity.  Faster 
and  more  confusedly  many  self-delusions  flew 
through  the  stress  of  his  mind,  as  burning 
brands  are  borne  by  violent  gusts  of  wind. 
Thus  was  hurled  the  recollection  of  that  day 
in  the  graveyard,  the  day  from  which  had 
dated  this  growing  aloofness  of  Doris,  an 
aloofness  so  gentle  that  he  had  mistaken  it 
for  timidity;  the  day  from  which  had  dated 
her  increasing  unwillingness  to  continue  these 
daily  strolls  —  an  unwillingness  so  subtle  that 
he  had  taken  it  for  nothing  more  than  natural 
anxiety  about  Miss  Judy.  Not  until  this  mo 
ment  had  he  had  the  remotest  suspicion  of  the 
truth,  even  though  it  had  gradually  frozen 
the  sweet  freedom  of  her  innocent  talk  into 
the  silence  of  cold  constraint. 

He  had  been  standing  still,  bowed  under  this 
intolerable  weight  of  humiliation,  crushed  be 
neath  this  overwhelming  burden  of  self-re 
proach.  Now  he  went  slowly  onward,  unseen 
and  unheard,  through  the  gathering  darkness 
and  the  deep  dust.  When  he  came  within 
sight  of  the  light  shining  behind  the  white  cur 
tain  over  the  one  window  of  Doris's  humble 
home,  he  paused  again  and  leaned  on  the  fence 
and  looked  at  the  window  for  a  long  time.  He 
felt  that  he  could  not  go  nearer  it  that  night, 
that  he  could  not  face  Doris  until  he  had  more 
fully  faced  his  own  soul.  As  he  gazed  at  the 

39<> 


The  Revelation  of  the  Truth 

white  light,  he  thought  how  like  it  was  to  the 
girl  herself,  so  simple,  so  clear,  so  steady,  so 
open,  shielded  only  by  the  single  whiteness  of 
purity.  A  soft  breeze  coming  over  the  hills 
rippled  the  silver  leaves,  —  grown  as  dark  now 
as  the  sombre  plumes  of  the  cypress  tree,  —  and 
stirred  the  white  curtain  as  if  with  spirit  hands. 
And  then  as  he  lingered  there  came  to  him  a 
wonderful  change  of  feeling.  The  thought  of 
her  stole  softly  to  him  through  the  warm  star 
light,  sweet  as  the  breath  of  the  white  jessamine. 
A  great,  deep  tenderness  welled  up  in  his  heart 
and  went  out  to  her,  sweeping  all  before  it  — 
all  untrue  dreams  of  ambition,  all  false  think 
ing,  all  self-delusion.  Then  he  knew  that  he 
loved  her;  then  he  knew  that  he  had  loved 
her  from  the  instant -that  his  eyes  had  fallen 
upon  her,  a  vision  of  beauty  framed  in  roses ; 
then  he  knew  that  he  would  love  her  with  the 
highest  and  finest  love  that  was  his  to  bestow  — 
so  long  as  he  should  live. 

When  this  bitter-sweet  truth  came  home  to 
his  troubled  heart,  it  brought  with  it  a  calm, 
tender  sadness.  Even  as  he  recognized  it  he 
felt  that  his  own  blind  folly,  his  foolish  conceit 
of  wisdom,  had  robbed  him  of  whatever  chance, 
whatever  hope  he  might  have  had,  of  winning 
her  love  in  return.  The  fatal,  unforgivable 
blunders  into  which  he  had  fallen  so  blindly 
must  forever  stand  in  the  way.  And  he  hardly 
dared  think  there  ever  could  have  been  any 
hope,  even  had  he  not  so  hopelessly  offended. 
For  humility  is  always  the  hall-mark  of  true 


Oldfield 

To  be  loved  by  the  one  beloved  is  always 
true  love's  most  wondrous  miracle. 

With  a  last  lingering  look  at  the  light  shin 
ing  through  the  white  curtain,  Lynn  turned 
slowly  and  went  down  the  big  road  toward  his 
grandmother's  house,  now  lying  dark  and  silent 
beneath  the  tall  trees  which  stood  over  it  and 
amid  the  thick  shrubbery  which  crowded  around 
it.  The  passionate  emotion  with  which  he  had 
left  it  had  passed  wholly  away.  The  love  rilling 
his  mind  and  heart,  as  with  the  sudden  unfurl 
ing  of  soft  wings,  left  no  room  for  anything 
hard  or  unkind  or  bitter.  He  had  almost  for 
gotten  the  hard  words  with  which  his  grand 
mother  had  so  cruelly  stoned  him ;  he  had 
wholly  forgiven  them.  For  newly  awakened 
love  can  forgive  almost  any  harshness  in  the 
awakening.  He  was  not,  in  fact,  thinking  of 
his  grandmother  at  all ;  he  was  thinking  solely 
of  Doris,  and  was  planning  to  see  her  at  the 
earliest  possible  moment  on  the  morrow.  It  was 
not  easy  of  late  to  see  her  alone ;  he  realized 
this  now  with  a  guilty  pang  which  touched  his 
new  peace  with  the  old  pain.  Only  on  the  pre 
vious  evening  he  had  found  her  gone  from  her 
home,  without  leaving  a  message  for  him,  as  she 
always  used  to  leave  one.  Only  by  the  merest 
accident  had  he  met  her  coming  out  of  Miss 
Judy's  gate ;  only  by  the  most  urgent  persua 
sion  had  he  been  able  to  induce  her  to  take  the 
accustomed  walk  to  the  graveyard,  which  she 
used  always  to  be  so  ready  and  even  eager  to 
take.  Ah,  that  walk  up  the  hillside,  which  had 

392 


The  Revelation  of  the  Truth 

been  as  a  torch  to  the  tinder  of  his  grand 
mother's  anger!  For  that,  also,  as  for  every 
thing  else,  he  alone  was  to  blame.  It  was  too 
late  to  undo  what  had  been  done;  but  never 
again  through  any  fault  of  his  should  evil 
speaking  or  evil  thinking  approach  her  spotless 
innocence.  It  was  not  for  his  strong  arms  to 
protect  her;  his  own  folly  had  forfeited  all 
hope  of  that  sweetest  and  most  sacred  privilege. 
Nevertheless,  he  might  still  beg  her  to  forgive 
him,  even  though  he  knew  that  forgiveness  was 
impossible  for  an  offence  such  as  his.  And 
he  might  still  tell  her  that  he  loved  her  and 
ask  her  to  be  his  wife,  although  he  knew  only 
too  well  that  she  would  refuse.  And  then,  hav 
ing  done  what  he  could,  he  would  go  on  with 
his  work.  He  had  not  forgotten  his  ambition, 
nor  had  he  thought  of  giving  it  up;  but  his 
old  foolish  belief  that  the  happiest  marriage 
must  hamper  a  man's  life  plans  had  gone  with 
the  rest  of  his  blinding  delusions.  He  no  longer 
thought  of  needing  both  hands  free  for  the 
climbing  of  ambition's  unsteady,  long  ladder. 
It  now  seemed  to  him  that  he  never  could  win 
anything  worth  the  winning  without  Doris  to 
hold  up  his  hands ;  that  nothing  either  great  or 
small  was  worth  the  winning  unless  shared  by  her. 
And  his  self-delusion  had  forever  lost  him  all 
hope  of  this.  Yet  he  might  still  beg  her  to  for 
give  him,  he  might  still  tell  her  that  he  loved  her 
and  ask  her  to  be  his  wife.  Nothing  should 
deny  him  that  honor  and  happiness  —  if  he  were 
but  spared  to  see  another  morning's  light. 

393 


Oldfield 

It  came  with  all  the  misty  glory  of  the  late 
southern  summer.  There  was  something  mel 
ancholy,  something  foretelling  the  saddest  days 
of  the  year,  in  the  sighing  wind  which  drifted 
the  browning  leaves  of  the  old  locust  trees,  waft 
ing  them  down  to  the  thinning  grass.  The  dim 
woods  belting  the  purpled  horizon  already  lifted 
banners  of  scarlet  and  gold,  waving  them  here 
and  there  on  the  hillsides,  among  the  fast-fading 
verdure.  The  sumac  bushes  were  already  bind 
ing  the  foot  of  the  far  green  hills  with  brilliant 
bands  of  crimson.  The  near-by  blackberry 
briers  were  already  richly  spotted  with  red. 
The  trumpet-vine,  with  the  dazzling  cardinal  of 
its  splendid  flowers  and  the  rich,  dark  green  of 
its  luxuriant  foliage,  already  made  all  the  crum 
bling  tree-trunks  and  all  the  falling  rail  fences 
gorgeous  mysteries  of  beauty.  The  golden- 
rods  were  already  full-flowering,  already  gilding 
the  meadows  where  the  black-eyed  Susans,  too, 
were  aglow,  and  where  the  grass  was  still 
vividly  green  beneath  the  purple  shadows  cast 
by  the  distant  hills  —  the  sad,  beautiful,  dark 
shadows  which  slant  before  the  coming  of  fall. 
Beyond  the  shadows  and  beyond  the  hills,  the 
summer  sun  still  flooded  the  warm  fields,  turning 
the  vast  billowing  seas  of  tobacco  from  blue- 
green  into  golden  green.  And  the  wide,  deep 
corn-fields,  now  flowing  in  silver-crested  waves, 
were  already  melting  into  molten  gold. 

The  great  ships  of  this  vast  inland  ocean  of 
grain  —  the  huge,  heavy-laden  wagons,  rising 
high  at  the  ends  like  the  stem  and  stern  of  a 

394 


The  Revelation  of  the  Truth 

vessel,  and  drawn  by  doubled  and  trebled 
teams  —  already  labored,  swayingly,  on  their  way 
to  the  Ohio  River  to  deliver  their  cargoes  of 
wheat  to  the  big  steamers  which  were  waiting 
to  bear  them  away  to  the  whole  world.  Many 
of  these  lurched  thunderingly  by  Lynn  Gordon, 
wholly  unheeded,  as  he  went  on  that  morning 
to  seek  Doris  Wendall.  It  was  very  early,  as 
early  as  he  could  hope  to  find  even  Doris  awake, 
notwithstanding  that  she  awakened  with  the 
birds.  The  wild  morning-glories,  clinging,  wet, 
fragrant,  and  sparkling,  on  all  the  fences  along 
the  wayside,  were  not  closed,  and  still  held  out 
their  fragrant  blue  cups,  striped  writh  red  like 
streaks  of  wine,  and  brimming  with  dew.  The 
evening  primroses  also  had  forgotten  to  close, 
and  were  still  blooming  bright  and  sweet,  close 
in  the  corners  of  the  fences.  Lynn  bent  down 
to  gather  the  freshest  and  sweetest,  because  it 
somehow  reminded  him  of  Doris,  though  he 
knew  not  why  or  how.  As  he  straightened  up 
he  suddenly  saw  her! —  with  a  great  leap  of  his 
heart.  There  she  was,  within  a  stone's  throw, 
just  entering  Miss  Judy's  gate.  He  was  not 
quite  near  enough  to  speak  had  he  found  any 
words;  and,  although  he  went  swiftly  toward  her 
with  the  long,  firm  stride  of  a  strong-willed 
man  approaching  a  distinct  purpose,  she  had 
flitted  out  of  sight  before  he  reached  the  gate. 
He  was  not  sure  that  she  had  seen  him,  but  he 
felt  that  she  had;  and  the  feeling  brought 
back  the  new  distrust  of  himself,  the  new  lack 
of  confidence  in  his  own  judgment,  the  new 

395 


Oldfield 

insecurity  in  his  own  knowledge  of  what  was 
best  to  do.  All  these  strange  and  painful  feel 
ings,  which  he  had  never  known  till  the  hum 
bling  revelation  of  the  previous  night,  rushed 
together  now,  to  hold  him  dumb  and  helpless, 
with  his  unsteady  hand  on  the  little  broken 
gate. 

He  turned  with  a  nervous  start  at  a  sound 
by  his  side.  Sidney  had  drawn  near  without 
his  seeing  her.  She  stood  within  a  few  paces, 
looking  at  him,  and  knitting  as  usual,  but  with 
a  look  of  trouble  on  her  honest  face.  Silently 
he  bowed  and  stepped  aside,  holding  the  gate 
open  for  her  to  pass  through. 

"  You've  come  to  ask  about  Miss  Judy,"  she 
said,  lowering  her  voice.  "  I'm  afraid  she  isn't 
any  better.  Doris  came  on  ahead  of  me,  but  I 
haven't  seen  her  since,  so  that  I  have  had  no 
news  from  Miss  Judy  for  nearly  an  hour." 

"I  —  I  didn't  know  she  was  ill,  "  said  Lynn, 
simply. 

"  Well,  your  grandmother  did.  I  sent  her 
word  last  night  that  we  hardly  expected  Miss 
Judy  to  live  till  daybreak."  Sidney  spoke  a 
little  severely,  and  she  looked  at  him  with 
frank  curiosity. 

"  I  am  sincerely  grieved.  What  is  it  ?  "  the 
young  man  faltered. 

"  It  seems  to  be  the  same  old  weakness  of 
the  heart  that  she's  always  had.  Any  kind  of  a 
shock  has  always  made  it  worse,  and  this  foolish 
lawsuit  of  that  crazy  Spaniard's  —  over  an  old 
no-account  note  of  her  father's  —  gave  her  the 

396 


The  Revelation  of  the  Truth 

hardest  blow  she's  had  this  many  a  year,  poor 
little  soft  soul.  It  didn't  make  any  difference  to 
her  that  the  note  wasn't  worth  the  paper  it  was 
written  on,  and  that  it  had  been  outlawed  long 
ago.  She  has  always  had  her  own  queer  little 
notions  about  things,  and  you  couldn't  shake 
her,  either,  mild  as  she  has  always  been.  And 
she's  always  worshipped  her  father,  so  that  she 
couldn't  bear  to  have  anything  against  his  name. 
He  never  worried  himself  much  about  his  debts. 
The  major  was  very  slack-twisted  in  business 
matters,  just  between  you  and  me.  But  the 
angel  Gabriel,  himself,  couldn't  make  Miss 
Judy  believe  that,  even  if  he  were  mean  enough 
to  try.  Last  night  she  came  by  my  house, 
going  on  to  see  Mr.  Pettus.  She  hoped  he 
might  buy  the  house,  and  that  she  could  raise 
the  money  in  that  way.  But  she  fainted  be 
fore  she  could  tell  him  what  she  wanted,  and 
he  carried  her  home  in  his  arms.  Such  a 
poor,  light,  little  mite  of  a  thing !  She's  been 
unconscious  most  of  the  time  since,  but  when 
ever  she  comes  to  herself  she  tries  to  say 
something  about  selling  the  house  —  in  a  whis 
per,  so  that  Miss  Sophia  won't  hear.  Then  she 
begins  to  worry,  wondering  what  Miss  Sophia 
will  do  if  the  house  is  sold,  and  honestly  believ 
ing  that  poor  Miss  Sophia  will  feel  disgraced  if 
it  isn't,  when  Miss  Sophia  neither  knows  nor 
cares  a  blessed  thing  about  the  whole  matter, 
so  that  she's  let  alone  to  eat  and  sleep.  I  am 
going  into  the  room  now  to  stay  with  Miss  Judy 
while  Doris  goes  home  for  a  little  rest.  She 

397 


Oldfield 

wouldn't  leave  the  bedside  for  an  instant  last 
night.  Wait  for  her,"  Sidney  added,  assuming 
a  blank,  meaningless  expression.  "  When  she 
comes  out  she  can  tell  you  how  the  poor  little 
soul  is." 

With  a  strange  tightening  of  the  throat  and 
a  tender  aching  in  his  breast,  Lynn  then  stood 
waiting,  with  his  eyes  on  Miss  Judy's  window. 
It  seemed  a  long  time  before  Doris  came  out,  and 
when  she  finally  appeared,  there  was  something 
indefinable  in  her  manner  which  made  him  feel 
that  she  had  not  come  of  her  own  accord.  But 
she  was  very  calm,  very  quiet,  very  sad,  and 
very  pale ;  and  her  soft  dark  eyes  were  softer 
and  darker  than  ever  with  unshed  tears.  She 
merely  said  that  her  mother  had  sent  her  to 
say  that  there  was  no  change.  The  doctor  had 
decided  that  there  could  be  but  one.  And 
when  she  had  said  this  she  quietly  turned  back 
toward  Miss  Judy's  room.  No,  she  answered 
in  reply  to  his  keenly  disappointed  inquiry,  she 
was  not  going  home.  She  could  rest  and  sleep 
—  after  —  Miss  Judy  was  gone.  There  was  so 
little  time  now  that  they  could  stay  together. 


398 


XXVI 

THE   TRAGEDY 

THE  news  of  Miss  Judy's  illness  reached  the 
judge  as  he  was  leaving  the  tavern  for  the  open 
ing  of  court.  It  was  then  too  late  for  him  to 
go  at  once  in  person  to  ask  how  she  was,  as 
he  wished  to  do,  and  as  he  otherwise  would 
have  done.  But  he  nevertheless  turned  back 
and  went  to  his  own  room,  long  enough  to  write 
her  a  few  hurried  lines  telling  of  his  deep  and 
tender  concern. 

And  when  this  was  written  he  was  not  satis 
fied.  He  sat  hesitating  for  a  moment,  listening 
absently  to  the  ringing  of  the  court-house  bell. 
Then,  again  taking  up  his  pen,  he  went  on  to 
beg  her  not  to  give  another  troubled  thought 
to  the  note  or  to  the  suit.  He  wrote  that  pos 
sibly  the  case  might  come  for  trial  on  that  very 
day, —  writing  this  as  lovingly,  as  tenderly,  as 
he  could  have  written  to  his  mother  whom  he 
had  never  known, —  and  going  on  to  tell  her 
that  he  wished  her  to  know,  only  for  her  own 
peace  of  mind,  that  the  payment  of  the  note, 
both  principal  and  interest,  had  already  been 
arranged  for,  and  would  be  made,  if  possible, 
before  the  opening  of  court.  This  was,  so  he 
wrote,  to  be  quite  regardless  of  the  decision  in 

399 


Oldfield 

the  case,  and  solely  to  set  her  mind  wholly  at 
rest.  After  writing  thus  far  he  still  sat  think 
ing,  feeling  as  if  he  had  not  yet  said  just  what 
he  meant  to  say,  as  if  he  had  not  been  quite 
tender  enough  of  the  little  lady's  tender  sensi 
bilities.  With  his  pen  poised  he  looked  out 
at  the  passing  wagons  and  at  the  crowd  gather 
ing  around  the  court-house,  taking  no  heed 
of  anything  save  the  anxiety  in  his  mind. 
At  last  a  sudden,  gentle  smile  illuminated 
his  grave,  pale  face,  as  he  added  another  para 
graph  :  - 

"  Of  course  you  understand,  my  dear  little 
friend,  that  this  money  is  advanced  as  a  loan 
which  you  may  repay  at  your  convenience. 
You  will  also  understand,  I  am  sure,  that  I 
should  not  have  taken  the  liberty  of  thus  set 
tling  your  private  business  without  your  con 
sent,  had  I  not  heard  of  your  illness  and  feared 
that  you  were  not  able  to  attend  to  it  yourself. 
As  soon  as  you  are  well  enough  you  may  scold 
me  as  much  as  you  like  for  my  presumption.  It 
is,  however,  to  be  between  ourselves ;  no  one 
else  must  know." 

He  gave  the  letter  to  a  negro  boy  and  watched 
him  fly  like  an  arrow  through  the  clouds  of  dust 
which  were  hanging  heavy  over  the  big  road. 
He  saw  the  child's  hazardous  dash  between  the 
great  wagons,  close  to  the  high,  grating  wheels, 
under  the  huge,  clanking  trace-chains,  almost 
under  the  beating  iron  hoofs.  For  this  quiet 
morning  of  late  summer  chanced  to  be  the  one 
out  of  the  whole  year  when  the  grass-grown 

400 


The  Tragedy 

solitude  of  Oldfield's  single  street  became  a 
thronged,  clamorous,  confused  thoroughfare. 

But  the  judge  cared  nothing  for  all  this  un 
wonted  turmoil,  beyond  the  safe,  swift  passage 
of  the  messenger  bearing  his  letter.  He  did 
not  know  that  Miss  Judy  was  too  ill  to  read  it, 
and  he  was  longing  to  have  it  reach  her  before 
she  could  hear  any  troubling  news  through  the 
possible  coming  up  of  the  case.  Turning  slowly 
toward  the  court-house,  he  was  thinking  solely 
of  her,  and  the  thought  of  her  illness  deepened 
the  sorrow  for  the  pain  of  the  world  which  al 
ways  lay  heavy  on  his  sad  heart.  As  he  thought 
of  this  gentle  soul,  whose  whole  life  had  been 
loving  sacrifice  for  others,  and  whose  very  life 
might  now  be  demanded  for  the  wrong-doing 
of  others,  the  sorrowful  mystery  of  living  per 
plexed  him  more  sorely  than  ever.  As  he 
thought  of  this  other  innocent  woman  suffering, 
it  might  be  even  unto  death,  through  a  mad 
man's  causeless  hatred  of  himself — even  his 
great  faith,  measured  by  his  judicial  mind, 
seemed  for  the  moment  to  shrink. 

Feeling  his  danger,  he  tried  to  wrench  his 
thoughts  away  and  to  turn  them  from  this 
morbid  brooding.  He  strove  so  strenuously 
that  he  presently  was  able  to  fix  his  attention 
on  the  matters  of  merely  human  law  and  justice 
which  began  to  come  before  him,  as  soon  as  he 
had  taken  his  place  upon  the  bench.  Thorough 
training  and  long  practice  helped  him  so  that 
he  was  gradually  able  to  bring  his  eminently 
legal  mind  to  bear  upon  the  wearying  routine 

2  D  401 


Oldfield 

of  the  docket  with  the  unerring  precision  of 
some  marvellous  machine. 

His  fine  face  was  still  pale,  but  there  was 
nothing  unusual  in  its  paleness,  and  it  now 
grew  calm  and  collected  under  the  very  intensity 
of  his  spirit's  stress.  For  the  farthest  spiritual 
extremity  lies  cold  and  still  beyond  all  human 
passion,  as  the  supreme  summit  of  perpetual  ice 
rises  cold  and  still  above  all  human  life.  There 
was,  therefore,  no  change  in  his  attitude  of  mind 
or  body  when  he  suddenly  saw  the  dark,  threat 
ening  visage  and  the  wild,  bloodshot  eyes  of  the 
Spaniard  confronting  him  through  the  crowded 
gloom  of  the  heated  court-room.  He  was  accus 
tomed  to  the  sight ;  it  had  faced  him  at  every 
term  of  his  court.  There  was  consequently  no 
disturbance,  not  the  slightest  uneasiness  in  the 
abrupt  turning  away  of  his  eyes.  His  sole  feel 
ing  was  one  of  unutterable  weariness  of  the 
struggle  of  living,  of  utter  sickness  of  mind  and 
heart  and  soul.  He  was  so  weary  that  he  did  not 
even  fear  himself,  so  utterly  weary  that  he  was — 
for  the  moment  —  no  longer  afraid  even  of  the 
unexpected  escape  of  his  own  fierce  temper, 
always  so  hardly  held  in  leash.  He  no  longer 
dreaded  the  sudden  breaking  of  the  steel  bars 
of  his  own  stern  self-control,  the  greatest  danger 
that  he  had  ever  found  to  fear. 

When  the  case  against  the  estate  of  Major 
John  Bramwell  came  to  trial  in  its  due  turn, 
during  the  dragging  hours  of  the  long,  hot 
afternoon,  the  judge  weighed  that  also,  as  he 
had  weighed  all  which  had  come  before,  and  as 

402 


The  Tragedy 

he  intended  weighing  all  which  were  to  come 
after — coolly,  calmly,  scrupulously — according 
to  the  letter  of  the  law.  Having  so  weighed  it, 
and  found  it  wanting,  he  dismissed  the  com 
plaint  on  account  of  time  limitation,  and 
assigned  the  costs  to  the  plaintiff,  as  he  would 
have  done  in  any  similar  case  under  like  cir 
cumstances.  Then  he  passed  composedly  to 
the  deliberate  consideration  of  further  business, 
and  the  hot,  heavy  hours  droned  on. 

Through  it  all  he  had  scarcely  glanced  at 
Alvarado ;  in  truth  he  had  scarcely  thought  of 
him  save  as  a  party  to  one  of  the  many  suits 
before  the  court.  He  had  had  no  opportunity 
to  learn  that  the  Spaniard  had  refused  to  accept 
the  money,  offered  early  in  the  day,  in  payment 
of  the  note.  He  did  not  observe  Alvarado's 
leaving  the  court-room  after  the  decision.  He 
did  not  know  that  the  man  was  waiting  on  the 
steps  when  he  himself  hastened  out  after  the 
adjournment  of  court. 

Thus  it  was  that  the  long-coming  crisis 
found  him  at  last  wholly  unprepared.  Thus  it 
was  that  the  blow  from  the  heavy  handle  of 
the  Spaniard's  riding-whip  struck  him  without 
warning.  It  sent  him,  stunned  and  reeling, 
down  the  steps.  His  hand  went  out,  through 
blind  instinct,  and  caught  one  of  the  portico 
pillars,  so  that  he  did  not  fall  quite  to  the 
earth ;  and  he  was  on  his  feet  instantly,  spring 
ing  to  his  great  height,  to  his  tremendous  power 
—  towering  above  the  surrounding  crowd.  As 
he  arose,  he  made  one  furious  leap,  like  the 

403 


Oldfield 

magnificent  bound  of  a  wounded  lion,  straight 
at  the  Spaniard,  who  stood  —  still  as  a  statue 
—  braced  for  the  encounter. 

A  cry  of  terror  had  gone  up  from  the  crowd 
when  the  blow  had  been  struck.  Many  re 
straining  arms  were  now  raised,  as  the  white 
fury  flashed  over  the  judge's  pale  face,  as  rare 
and  deadly  lightning  glares  from  the  paleness 
of  a  winter  sky.  And  then  this  appalling 
danger-signal  faded  even  as  it  flashed  forth. 
The  cry  of  the  crowd  was  suddenly  hushed, 
its  swaying  was  suddenly  stilled.  There  now 
followed  a  strange  pause  of  strained  waiting ! 

Every  man's  eyes  were  on  the  judge.  No 
man  gave  a  glance  to  the  Spaniard  ;  every  man 
knew  what  he  meant  to  do.  But  the  judge  — 
it  was  on  his  noble  figure  and  on  his  fine  face 
that  every  man's  eyes  were  riveted.  Every 
man  knew  his  horror  of  violence  of  any  de 
scription,  and  his  abhorrence  of  the  taking  of 
human  life  under  any  provocation.  Yet  every 
man,  thus  looking  on,  held  it  to  be  impossible 
for  any  man  to  suffer  the  degradation  which 
this  man  had  just  suffered,  without  resistance. 
For  in  every  man's  eyes  this  was,  with  but  one 
exception,  the  most  binding  of  all  the  -many 
traditions  for  the  shedding  of  blood. 

No  man  might  suffer  it,  and  ever  hope  to 
hold  up  his  head  among  his  fellow-men,  with 
out  killing,  or  at  least  trying  to  kill,  the  man 
who  had  so  degraded  him.  Breathless,  indeed, 
was  this  instant's  terrible  waiting !  The  blood 
thirsty  wild  beast,  which  lurks  forgotten  in 

404 


The  Tragedy 

most  men's  hearts,  now  leaped  up  in  its  secret 
lair,  scenting  blood,  and  stared  fiercely  out  of 
the  fierce  eyes  fixed  on  the  judge.  And  not 
one  of  all  these  men  —  all  so  feeling,  all  so  be 
lieving —  could  credit  the  evidence  of  his  own 
senses  when  he  saw  this  man,  who  stood  so 
high  above  other  men  in  body,  in  mind,  and  in 
reputation,  now  stand  still,  making  no  farther 
advance.  Even  less  could  they  believe  what 
their  own  eyes  beheld,  when  they  then  saw  him 
draw  back,  slowly  and  silently,  from  the  near 
ness  to  the  Spaniard  to  which  that  single  un 
controllable  bound  had  carried  him.  And  so 
the  crowd  stood  —  stricken  dumb  and  motion 
less — for  a  breath's  space!  Then  —  suddenly 
—  every  upraised  arm  came  down  as  the  judge's 
powerful  arms  fell  at  his  side.  Calmly,  almost 
gently,  he  turned,  and,  raising  his  majestic  form 
to  its  fullest  height,  and  lifting  his  noble  head  to 
its  highest  level,  he  rested  his  calm,  clear  gaze 
on  the  murderous  passion  of  the  Spaniard's 
eyes.  It  was  a  long,  strange  look.  It  was  a 
look  which  filled  every  man  who  saw  it  with 
a  feeling  of  awe ;  even  though  not  one,  of  all 
those  who  were  looking  on,  could  comprehend 
its  meaning.  It  was  a  look  such  as  not  many 
are  permitted  to  try  to  comprehend :  it  was  a 
look  such  as  no  mortal  men  can  ever  have 
seen,  save  it  may  have  been  the  few  who  stood 
close  to  the  foot  of  the  Cross. 

In  his  own  room  at  the  tavern,  late  on  that 
afternoon,  the  judge  felt  more  alone  than  ever 
before  through  all  his  lonely  life.  He  had 

4°5 


Oldfield 

already  begun  to  suffer  the  mental  reaction 
which  nearly  always  follows  great  spiritual  ex 
altation.  He  was  even  now  thinking  of  what 
he  had  done  —  what  he  had  not  done  —  as  if  he 
were  another  person.  He  most  distinctly  saw 
its  inevitable,  far-reaching,  and  never-ending 
consequences.  He  realized  that  he,  no  more  — 
perhaps  even  less  —  than  any  other  man,  could 
expect  to  evade  them  or  hope  to  live  them  down. 
The  very  fact  of  his  prominence  could  but  make 
the  matter  more  widely  known  and  more  dis 
astrous  in  its  results.  The  high  office  which 
he  held  —  though  it  personified  the  law  — 
would  only  make  his  breaking  of  this  unwritten 
law  all  the  more  unpardonable.  Suddenly  he 
felt  completely  overwhelmed  by  the  weariness  of 
life,  which  had  so  weighed  upon  him  through  the 
day.  In  terrifying  fear  of  himself  he  sprang  to 
the  open  window  and  hurriedly  leaned  out,  find 
ing  a  measure  of  safety  in  the  mere  presence 
of  the  people  passing  on  their  way  home  from 
court.  But  some  of  them  looked  up,  and  stared 
at  him  curiously,  so  that  he  drew  back.  He 
had  not  closed  the  door  of  his  room,  and  he 
was  glad  to  hear  footsteps  in  the  passage,  al 
though  he  merely  turned  his  head  without 
speaking  when  the  man,  to  whom  he  had  given 
the  money  for  the  payment  of  the  note,  came 
in  quietly,  and  laid  it  on  the  table  within  reach 
of  his  hand.  Nor  did  the  man  speak,  —  there 
was  nothing  for  any  one  to  say,  —  but  he  stood 
for  a  moment  hesitatingly,  irresolutely;  and 
then,  still  without  speaking,  he  drew  a  pistol 

406 


The  Tragedy 

from  his  pocket,  and  laid  it  on  the  table  beside 
the  money. 

When  he  was  gone  the  judge  got  up  and 
closed  the  door,  and  took  the  pistol  in  his  hands, 
which  were  beginning  to  tremble  now  as  they 
had  never  trembled  before.  Hastily  he  put  the 
temptation  down,  and  walked  to  the  door  and 
opened  it  again :  taking  swift,  aimless  turns  up 
and  down  the  room.  At  the  sound  of  footsteps 
again  passing  along  the  passage,  he  called  to  a 
servant  and  asked  for  some  water.  The  pres 
ence  of  any  one  would  protect  him  against  him 
self.  Turning  this  way  and  that,  aimlessly,  he 
turned  once  more  to  the  window,  and  threw  it 
higher  and  pushed  the  curtain  further  back  — 
as  far  this  time  as  it  would  go.  He  then  leaned 
out  again,  caring  nothing  now  for  the  curious 
gaze  of  the  passers-by,  caring  only  that  he 
might  escape  this  overpowering,  horrifying, 
paralyzing  fear  of  himself. 

The  highway  was  heavily  overhung  with  clouds 
of  dust  as  the  huge  wagons  with  their  mighty 
teams,  which  had  passed  in  the  morning,  now 
rumbled  homeward,  returning  from  the  journey 
to  the  river.  Through  the  dark  haze  the  judge 
could  see  only  the  proud  face  of  his  wife,  and  it 
seemed  to  his  fevered  fancy  that  her  cool  smile 
was  cooler  than  ever  with  something  very  like 
scorn.  It  seemed  to  his  sick  imagination  that 
he  could  see  again  the  half-contemptuous  shrug 
of  her  graceful  shoulders,  the  half-scornful  lift 
of  her  handsome  brows,  with  which  she  always 
greeted  any  disregard  of  the  established  order. 

407 


Oldfield 

Above  the  rude  sounds  of  the  iron-bound 
wheels,  the  clanking  chains,  and  the  beating 
hoofs,  he  heard  the  music  of  the  light  laugh 
with  which  she  had  always  mocked  his  own 
deviations.  She  had  called  him  an  idealist,  a 
dreamer  —  even  a  fanatic  —  half  in  jest,  half  in 
earnest.  But  this  was  different.  She  would 
not  laugh  at  this,  which  must  alter  her  position 
in  the  world  as  well  as  his  owrn.  And  then,  as 
he  thought  of  this,  a  doubt  for  the  first  time 
assailed  him,  piercing  his  breast  like  a  poisoned 
spear.  Had  he  the  right  —  toward  her?  She 
had  married  a  man  who  stood  fair  before  all 
men.  Again,  in  the  anguish  of  this  last  thought, 
this  new  dread,  this  worst  doubt,  the  deadly  fear 
of  himself  rushed  over  him.  Weakened  and 
sickened  in  body  by  the  anguish  of  mind  which 
was  rending  him,  he  dared  not  turn  his  head 
toward  the  table  where  the  temptation  lay  with 
in  such  easy  reach  of  his  shaking  hand. 

Leaning  as  far  as  possible  the  other  way,  he 
caught  sight  of  the  old  Frenchman,  toiling 
along  the  big  road  on  crutches,  threading  a 
passage  through  its  unusual  turmoil  with  diffi 
culty  and  pain.  Then  the  wind  tossed  the 
deep  dust  and  sent  it  swirling  upward  in  thick, 
dark  clouds,  shutting  the  highway  from  the 
judge's  unseeing  sight.  He  had  hardly  been 
conscious  of  seeing  Monsieur  Beauchamp ; 
everything  was  passing  in  a  fearful  dream.  He 
scarcely  heard  a  new,  strange  roar  which  now 
suddenly  arose  above  the  voices  of  the  passing 
people,  above  the  rumble,  the  rattle,  and  clash 

408 


The  Tragedy 

of  the  passing  wagons  and  the  heavy  beating 
of  many  great  hoofs.  But  he  heard  more 
consciously  as  this  came  nearer  and  louder, 
like  the  rapid,  roaring  approach  of  a  sudden 
terrible  storm.  He  saw  clearly  enough  when 
the  cause  of  the  violent  sounds  burst  over  the 
highest  hilltop,  and  dashed  down  its  side  — 
as  a  gigantic  wave  is  driven  by  a  hurricane, 

—  a  huge  wagon  thundering  behind  six  mighty, 
maddened,  runaway  horses.      Like   some  mon 
ster  missile  it  was  hurled  this  way  and   that, 
crashing  terrifically  from   side   to  side   of  the 
big  road;  and  threatening  the  whole  highway 
with  destruction.     Like  death-dealing  thunder 
bolts  the  flying  iron  hoofs  gave  little  time  to 
flee   for   safety,    but   the   danger   appeared    to 
give    wings    to    every    living    creature,    brute 
and  human  alike.     The  old  Frenchman  alone 
stood  still,  paralyzed   by  fright  and   unable  to 
move.     His  crutches  dropped  from  his  power 
less    grasp,   so  that   he  could   no   longer   even 
stand,  and  —  tottering  and  shrieking  for  help 

—  he    fell   helpless,   prone   upon    the    highway 
straight    in    the    track  of   that    huge,    blurred, 
black  bulk  of  Force  which  was  being  whirled 
toward  him    with  the  speed   of  a   cyclone   by 
the  storm-flight  of  those  frenzied  horses. 

And  then  the  judge's  vision  magically  cleared, 
and  he  saw  the  little  Frenchman  —  his  weak 
ness,  his  utter  helplessness  —  as  if  by  a  light 
ning  flash.  The  judge,  starting  up  with  a 
leap,  was  down  the  stairs  and  running  along 
the  big  road  almost  as  soon  as  he  realized 

409 


Oldfield 

what  it  was  that  he  was  going  to  meet.  He 
was  such  a  powerful  man,  so  quick  and  strong 
of  mind  and  body,  so  prompt,  so  able,  so  fear 
less  in  the  doing  of  everything  that  he  thought 
right  !  Ah,  the  pity  of  it  all! 

He  could  not  see  the  old  man  upon  first 
reaching  the  highway.  Blinding  dust-clouds 
hung  more  heavily  than  ever  over  the  wild, 
furious  confusion  of  the  big  road.  The  people, 
terror-mad,  were  fleeing,  each  one  thinking  only 
of  his  own  peril.  The  drivers,  panic-stricken, 
whirled  the  clashing  wagons  hither  and  thither, 
utterly  bewildered.  The  horses,  helpless  and 
terrified,  plunged  amid  the  clanking  of  the 
entangled  trace-chains.  The  dense  clouds  of 
smothering  dust  hung  like  a  blinding  pall. 
But  the  judge  knew  where  the  little  French 
man  was  lying  and  sprang  straight  toward 
him  and  found  him  in  time,  —  barely  in  time 
to  bend  down,  to  lift  him  in  his  mighty  arms 
and  toss  him  like  a  feather  far  beyond  danger. 
But  there  was  no  more  time,  —  not  an  instant, 
—  and  then  the  judge  himself  went  down  as  a 
church  spire  falls  before  a  tempest,  —  down  into 
the  dust  of  the  earth  under  the  awful,  crushing 
hoofs  of  the  maddened  horses,  down  under  the 
cruel,  cutting  tires  of  those  merciless  wheels,  — 
down  to  death,  giving  his  life  for  the  humblest 
of  his  fellow-creatures. 


fi  . 


4, 


/ 

#-VUVt 


XXVII 

THE    LAST    ARTFULNESS    OF    MISS    JUDY 

To  Lynn  Gordon,  as  to  most  of  the  Old- 
field  people,  it  seemed  as  if  this  sleepless  night 
—  the  saddest  ever  known  to  the  village  — 
never  would  end.  And  yet,  when  he  arose 
at  last,  with  the  first  faint  glimmer  of  the  day's 
gray,  and  looked  out  through  the  dew-wet  dim 
ness  of  the  green  boughs  at  the  softly  whiten 
ing  east,  a  sudden  feeling  of  peace  fell  upon  his 
deeply  troubled  spirit. 

The  sorrow  and  terror  of  the  darkness  fled 
away,  like  evil  birds  of  the  night,  so  peaceful 
did  the  world  appear,  so  free  from  all  pain  and 
wrong  and  cruelty  and  death,  now  that  the  soft 
white  dawn-light  —  cool,  sweet,  calm,  pure  as 
ever  —  was  coming  for  the  perpetual  refresh 
ment  of  the  earth.  Under  this  fresh  whiteness 
from  heaven  all  living  creatures  looked  to  be 
resting  untroubled,  completely  in  harmony 
with  one  another.  Three  little  screech-owls  sat 
as  a  single  bunch  of  gray  feathers,  motionless 
among  the  shadows  which  still  lingered  in  the 
nearest  tree.  Three  little  brownish  heads  merely 
turned  slowly  as  he  appeared  at  the  window, 
and  six  big  eyes  regarded  him  calmly,  as  though 
all  belonged  to  the  one  small  bunch  of  dark 

411 


Oldfield 

/  /        ^     /Oit-^  *  Q^ 

'^--/tf^AV^t-.  i_-i'r»wvv       rjrtsC*  'ft 

gray  feathers,  still  huddled  sleepily  together 
almost  within  reach  of  his  hand. 

From  the  darker  and  more  distant  trees 
gradually  swelled  the  twitter  of  many  bird 
voices,  rising  into  a  rapturous  chorus  as  the 
east  became  rifted  with  rose  and  seamed  with 
silver.  Every  member  of  this  divine  choir  was 
singing  his  softest  and  sweetesflh  celebration 
of  the  dawn's  eternal  renewal  of  creation.  And 
then,  as  the  rose  brightened  into  royal  red,  and 
the  silver  melted  into  molten  gold,  at  the  nearer 
approach  of  sunrise,  the  oriole — already  wearing 
the  sun's  golden  livery  —  sent  forth  his  ringing 
welcome  to  the  king,  a  greeting  so  brilliant  and 
so  ancient  as  to  make  the  trumpeter's  mediaeval 
salute  to  the  emperor  seem  but  a  poor  dull  thing 
of  yesterday. 

With  this  music  in  his  ears  and  this  seeming 
peace  and  happiness  before  his  eyes,  Lynn  Gor 
don  could  hear  no  sound  of  the  sorrow  of  living, 
nor  could  he  find  any  sign  of  the  pain  of  the 
world.  An  unconscious  smile  lifted  the  weight 
from  his  heart  as  he  idly  watched  a  merry  couple 
of  nuthatches  —  those  gay  little  jesters  in  sober 
feathers,  who  enliven  the  solemn  silence  of  the 
trees  —  tumbling  up  and  down  a  giant  elm.  He 
did  not  see  the  solitary  butcher  bird,  nature's 
most  cruel  executioner,  sitting  in  motionless, 
sinister  silence  in  the  dark  depths  of  a  great 
thorn  tree,  nature's  cruelest  scaffold. 

As  the  light  grew  brighter  the  young  man's 
eyes  followed  the  wood  smoke  arising  from  the 
tall  chimney  of  the  tavern  in  slender  thin 
spirals  of  pale  blue,  and  going  straight  up  to 

412 


The  Last  Artfulness  of  Miss  Judy 

spirals  of  pale  blue,  and  going  straight  up  to 
the  bluer  blue  of  the  warm,  windless  sky. 
With  the  sight,  the  deep  sadness  of  the  night 
came  back  suddenly  and  overwhelmingly.  It 
was  not  a  terrible  dream ;  it  was  a  more  terrible 
reality.  Under  that  old  mossy  roof,  so  simple, 
so  peaceful-seeming,  lay  all  that  was  mortal  of 
the  noblest  presence,  the  noblest  mind,  the 
noblest  heart  that  this  isolated  corner  of  the 
earth  had  ever  given  to  the  greater  world. 

Before  a  tragedy  so  overwhelming  every 
earnest  soul  striving  in  Oldfield  stood  awed, 
although  it  was  not  given  to  many  to  compre 
hend  that  the  greatest  awe  which  even  the  sim 
plest  felt  was  for  the  awful  Mystery  of  Life. 
Never  in  the  history  of  the  village  had  its  sim 
ple  people  been  so  slow  in  taking  up  the  petty 
burden  of  daily  struggle  and  strife.  It  seemed 
as  if  the  least  imaginative  must  be  feeling  the 
littleness  of  all  earthly  things. 

Even  old  lady  Gordon's  look  and  manner 
were  almost  gentle,  certainly  more  gentle  than 
her  grandson  had  ever  seen  them.  Scarcely  a 
word  passed  between  the  two  after  bidding 
each  other  good  morning  on  meeting  at  the 
breakfast  table ;  and  she  saw  him  go  in  silence 
when  the  uneaten  meal  was  over.  He  hastened 
straight  up  the  road,  looking  neither  to  the 
right  nor  the  left.  Doris  was  with  Miss 
Judy;  he  knew  that  she  was,  because  he  had 
haunted  the  house  through  the  greater  part  of 
the  terrible  night,  and,  although  he  had  not 
been  able  to  speak  to  her,  he  had  seen  her 

413 


Oldfield 

shadow  on  the  white  curtain  of  Miss  Judy's 
room.  The  sight  had  comforted  him  some 
what  at  the  moment,  but  he  now  was  longing 
more  than  ever  to  see  her,  to  speak  to  her  — 
longing  with  the  unspeakably  softened  tender 
ness  that  comes  to  love  through  grief. 

And  he  saw  her  through  the  window  from 
Miss  Judy's  gate.  The  poor  old  white  cur 
tain,  with  its  quaint  border  of  little  snowballs, 
had  been  pushed  back  as  far  as  it  would  go, 
much  farther  than  it  ever  had  been  before 
when  Miss  Judy  was  lying  in  the  high  old 
bed.  There  was  too  desperate  need  for  every 
wandering  breeze,  for  every  straying  breath  of 
air,  for  appearances  to  be  remembered.  Miss 
Judy  herself  could  no  longer  guard  the  sacred 
privacy  of  that  spotless  chamber.  She  could  no 
longer  even  blush  faintly  when  the  doctor  laid 
his  shaggy  head  against  her  hard-laboring  little 
heart,  listening  for  its  weak  fluttering,  and 
hearing  the  soft  knell  of  the  pericardial  mur 
mur.  For  even  this,  which  rings  so  harshly 
from  sterner  breasts,  rang  softly  from  Miss 
Judy's  gentle  breast.  Yet  it  rang  unmis 
takably,  nevertheless,  and  there  was  nothing 
more  that  the  doctor  could  do  —  nothing  save 
to  grieve,  and  he  never  stood  idle  for  futile 
grieving  when  the  suffering  needed  him  else 
where.  After  the  doctor  was  gone  to  other 
duties,  only  Miss  Sophia  sat  at  the  bedside, 
striving  piteously  to  realize  what  was  happen 
ing;  and  Doris  alone  hovered  silently  over  it 
and  flitted  softly  around  it;  doing  the  little 

4M 


The  Last  Artfulness  of  Miss  Judy 

that  she  found  to  do,  and  holding  back  her 
tears  for  Miss  Judy's  sake.  But  many  others 
who  loved  Miss  Judy  were  already  gathering, 
and  waited  in  the  passage,  looking  out  at  the 
passers-by  and  shaking  their  heads  speechlessly 
and  sadly  at  those  who  paused  at  the  gate  to 
make  anxious  inquiry. 

Lynn  Gordon  did  not  enter  the  house,  and 
he  quickly  turned  his  eyes  away  from  the  un 
curtained  window.  Even  his  reverend  gaze 
seemed  a  profanation  of  the  holiness  of  that 
quiet,  shadowed  old  room,  whence  the  soul  of 
a  saint  was  so  near  taking  its  flight  from  the 
earth.  He  crossed  the  narrow  strip  of  front 
yard  with  noiseless  steps  and  sat  down  on  a 
broken  bench  under  the  window.  He  could 
hear  Miss  Sophia's  heavy  breathing  as  the  little 
sister  tried  to  understand;  and  he  caught  the 
soft  rustle  of  Doris's  skirts  as  the  girl  moved 
now  and  then  in  her  loving  ministrations ;  he 
could  almost  hear  the  swaying  of  the  fan  in 
her  hand.  Presently  he  became  conscious  of 
a  familiar  scent  —  faint,  pure,  delicate,  like  the 
spirit  of  perfume.  He  did  not  know  at  first 
what  it  was,  but  it  seemed  to  float  out  through 
the  open  window;  and  after  a  little  while  he 
knew  it  to  be  the  old-fashioned,  natural,  whole 
some  sweetness  of  dried  rose  leaves,  the  fra 
grance  which  had  always  clung  round  Miss 
Judy's  life,  the  fragrance  which  would  forever 
cling  round  her  memory. 

As  he  sat  there  waiting,  —  as  so  many  were 
now  waiting,  —  others  came  and  went.  Anne 

415 


Oldfield 

Watson  crossed  the  big  road  before  sitting 
down  to  the  card-table,  and  stood  for  a  moment 
at  the  door,  talking  in  a  low  tone  to  some  one 
whom  Lynn  could  not  see.  But  her  husband's 
wistful,  restless,  compelling  gaze  followed  her, 
drawing  her  back,  and  she  did  not  linger. 
Nothing,  not  even  her  grateful  affection  for 
Miss  Judy,  could  hold  her  long  away  from  her 
post ;  nothing,  save  death  alone,  could  ever  free 
her  from  it.  And  even  after  death  — !  What 
then  ?  Always,  Anne  Watson  was  asking  her 
self  that  question ;  never  was  she  able  so  to 
answer  it  that  her  soul  was  set  at  rest.  She 
now  went  slowly  and  sadly  to  her  place  at  the 
card-table,  and  she  did  not  leave  it  again  that 
day.  But  Lynn  Gordon,  keeping  his  vigil,  saw 
her  strange,  mystical  gaze  wander  many  times 
from  the  burning  stake  to  which  she  was 
bound,  —  a  hopeless,  tortured  captive  for  life, — 
to  the  shadowed  peace  of  the  window  behind 
his  head.  Ah,  the  inscrutableness  of  those 
strange  eyes.  The  eyes  of  Anne  Watson  were 
the  eyes  of  a  fanatic,  yet  none  the  less  the  eyes 
of  a  martyr. 

He  glanced  now  and  then  at  the  people  who 
were  coming  and  going  so  stilly  and  so  sadly 
through  the  little  broken  gate.  All  gave  him 
a  friendly  nod  in  passing,  no  matter  whether 
they  knew  him  or  not,  for  that  was  the  kind 
I  custom  of  the  country.  \  But  no  one  stopped  to 
speak  to  him;  all  appeared  to  be  too  deeply 
absorbed  in  their  own  sad  thoughts. 

Only  Kitty  Mills  smiled  at  him,  and  she  did 
416 


The  Last  Artfulness  of  Miss  Judy 

not  know  that  she  smiled,  for  her  light  heart 
was  heavy  enough  that  day.  But  she  never 
had  known  what  it  was  to  have  her  eyes  meet 
other  eyes  without  smiling;  and  her  merry  brown 
ones  smiled  now  of  themselves  without  her 
knowledge,  through  mere  force  of  habit.  They 
had  been  sad  indeed  an  instant  before,  and  her 
round  ruddy  cheeks  were  drawn  and  pale,  and 
bore  traces  of  tears.  She  had  been  tirelessly 
running  back  and  forth  between  her  own  house 
and  Miss  Judy's,  coming  and  going  more  often 
than  any  one  else,  as  often,  in  truth,  as  she  found 
herself  momentarily  released  from  her  father- 
in-law's  ceaseless  clamor  for  attention,  and 
as  his  querulous  summons  recalled  her  to  her 
perpetual  bondage.  His  shrill,  imperious  cry 
now  suddenly  made  itself  distinctly  heard 
through  the  reigning  stillness ;  through  that 
awesome  stillness  which  reigns  wherever  death 
is  expected ;  that  stillness  which  awes  all,  save 
the  very  young,  who  feel  too  far  away  to  be 
afraid,  and  the  very  old,  who  are  come  too  near 
to  heed  the  awe. 

In  response  to  the  call  Kitty  Mills  started  to 
run  across  the  big  road  as  she  had  sped  many 
times  that  day,  and  in  so  doing  she  encountered 
Miss  Pettus,  who  had  gone  home  and  was  now 
returning  in  great  haste,  bearing  a  small  covered 
dish  with  the  greatest  care.  At  the  sight  of  her 
the  sadness  instantly  flitted  from  poor  Kitty 
Mills's  face  —  which  was  newly  wet  with  tears 
—  and  the  old  quizzical,  bantering  challenge 
flashed  into  it  without  her  dreaming  that  it  was 

2E  417 


Oldfield 

there.  But  Miss  Pettus  saw  it  as  quickly  as  it 
came,  and  her  fiery  temper  flared  up  forthwith, 
like  a  flame  in  a  sudden  gust  of  wind.  Her 
sharp  little  black  eyes  snapped  with  all  the  old 
fire,  although  they  were  red  and  swollen  with 
weeping  and  watching  the  whole  night  through. 
Her  homely,  hard,  faithful  features  stiffened  at 
once  with  all  the  old  scornful  wrath  as  she 
caught  Kitty  Mills  looking  at  the  dish. 

"Yes,  it's  a  chicken  for  Miss  Judy!  And  no 
bigger  than  a  bird  either  —  and  tenderer  too. 
There's  no  law  —  that  I  know  of  —  against  my 
having  late  chickens,  even  if  that  stubborn  old 
dorminica  wont  set,"  she  said,  as  fiercely  de 
fiant  as  ever. 

She  gave  the  usual  contemptuous  toss  of  her 
head  in  its  gingham  sunbonnet,  and  the  accus 
tomed  excited  swish  of  her  starched  calico  skirt, 
as  she  passed  Kitty  Mills.  And  then  she  turned 
for  the  parting  shot,  which  she  could  not  even 
then  bring  herself  to  forego :  — 

"  What  if  I  have  cooked  this  chicken  for  Miss 
Judy  with  my  own  hands  ?  Don't  /  know  as 
well  as  you  do  that  she  can't  eat  it  —  nor  any 
thing  else  —  ever  again  in  this  world?  And 
what's  that  got  to  do  with  my  cooking  this 
chicken,  and  thinking  that  —  maybe  Miss  Judy 
might  feel  a  little  better  —  if"  —  with  a  burst 
of  angry  sobbing,  "  —  if  she  could  see  Miss 
Sophia  eat  it.  She  always  liked  that  better 
than  anything  for  herself.  You  know  as  well 
as  /  do,  Kitty  Mills,  that  she  always  was  just 
that  silly  and  soft !  " 

418 


The  Last  Artfulness  of  Miss  Judy 

Miss  Pettus  went  on  toward  the  gate,  and 
Lynn  Gordon  got  up  to  open  it  for  her,  some 
passer-by  having  thoughtlessly  dropped  ovei 
the  post  the  loop  of  faded  blue  ribbon  which 
served  in  the  place  of  a  latch.  How  like 
Miss  Judy  that  poor  little  scrap  of  daintiness 
was !  As  he  stood  holding  the  gate  back  for 
Miss  Pettus  to  pass,  seeing  that  her  hands 
were  full,  he  heard  the  rumble  of  wheels,  the 
rattle  of  some  approaching  vehicle.  The  great, 
brown  cloud  of  dust  lifted,  drifting  farther  down 
the  big  road,  and  out  of  it  came  an  old-fashioned 
buggy  drawn  by  an  old  gray  horse.  This  was 
driven  by  a  white-haired  negro,  who  had  once 
been  Colonel  Fielding's  coachman,  and  who  was 
now  long  since  become  his  nurse.  Beside  the 
driver  sat  the  colonel  himself,  and  Lynn  sprang 
to  assist  him  in  getting  down  from  the  buggy ; 
but  the  negro  made  a  sly  restraining  gesture, 
and  when  the  young  man  came  near  he  saw 
that  the  colonel's  beautiful  old  head  was  shak 
ing  strangely,  and  that  his  fine  old  eyes  appeared 
not  to  see  what  they  were  resting  upon.  The 
colonel  gazed  vaguely  down  at  Lynn  before  he 
spoke : — 

"  Ah,  yes  —  my  compliments  to  little  Mistress 
Judy.  That  was  what  I  came  to  say.  Will  you 
be  so  very  kind,  young  sir,  as  to  give  my  com 
pliments  to  the  elder  of  the  major's  daughters, 
and  also  to  the  major  himself?  Say,  if  you 
please,  that  Colonel  Fielding  has  called  this 
morning  to  pay  his  compliments  to  her  and  to 
her  honored  father.  A  man  of  honor,  sir,  a  sol- 

419 


Oldfield 

dier,  and  a  gentleman.  Gad  —  sir  —  what  more 
would  you  have  ?  What  more  could  any  man 
be  ? "  he  said,  suddenly  turning  upon  his  ser 
vant  with  a  piteous  touch  of  bewildered  asperity. 

"  7^-be-shore,  sir !  7V-be-shore !  "  said  the 
old  negro,  soothingly. 

"I  —  I  seem  —  to  disremember  something," 
the  colonel  went  on,  forgetting  this  momentary, 
formless  annoyance.  He  sat  still  and  silent  for 
a  space,  trying  to  remember  why  he  had  come. 
He  put  his  shapely  hand  to  his  high  forehead 
in  mild  confusion.  His  thick,  curling,  silver 
hair  fell  around  his  face  and  upon  his  shoulders 
in  rather  wild  disorder. 

"Little  Judy  is  a  mighty  pretty  girl  —  deli 
cate,  sweet,  and  fair  as  a  sweet-brier  blossom. 
No  prettier  nor  sweeter  girl  ever  footed  the 
Virginia  Reel  in  this  whole  Pennyroyal  Region. 
You  will  give  her  and  her  honored  father  my 
,message,  if  you  please,  young  sir.  '  Colonel 
Fielding's  compliments  and  also  Miss  Alice 
Fielding's  compliments  to  Major  Bramwell  and 
his  daughter.'  You  will  not  forget  ?  " 

"  I  will  not  forget,  sir,"  said  Lynn  Gordon, 
as  steadily  as  he  could  speak. 

"  And  —  and  what  else  was  it  ?  What  else 
did  I  come  for?  Tell  me  this  instant,  you 
black  rascal !  "  the  colonel  now  cried,  again  turn 
ing  upon  his  servant  in  excited,  displeased  be 
wilderment.  "  What  do  you  mean —  I  say,  sir 
—  by  sitting  there  without  saying  a  word  ? 
What  was  it  I  wanted  to  say  about  that  young 
John  Stanley,  who's  eternally  hanging  round 

420 


The  Last  Artfulness  of  Miss  Judy 

my  house  ?  What  did  somebody  tell  me  about 
him  —  only  this  morning  ?  What's  the  matter 
with  you,  can't  you  speak,  boy  ? " 

The  old  negro's  heavy  lips  were  trembling 
so  that  he  could  not  have  spoken  had  there 
been  anything  to  say.  He  sat  bolt  upright, 
gazing  straight  before  him  at  the  dust  of  the 
deserted  highway ;  his  ragged  coat  was  as  care 
fully  buttoned  as  his  fine  livery  used  to  be ;  he 
held  the  reins  —  broken  and  spliced  with  rope 
—  over  the  poor  old  horse,  which  stood  with  a 
dejected  droop,  precisely  as  he  used  to  hold  the 
fine,  strong,  lines  over  his  master's  spirited  bays. 

"  Well  —  drive  on  home,  then,"  the  colonel 
said,  after  a  moment's  hesitation,  suddenly  re 
covering  his  usual  mildness.  "  Perhaps  I  may 
remember  —  and  if  so  you  may  fetch  me  back." 

Lynn  watched  the  buggy  disappear  amid  the 
thickening  clouds  of  dust,  and  when  it  was  out 
of  sight  he  turned  with  a  sigh  toward  the 
people  who  were  still  coming  and  going,  look 
ing  sadder  when  they  went  than  when  they 
came.  He  was  surprised  to  see  how  many  were 
passing  through  that  humble  little  broken  gate, 
with  its  pathetic  fastening  of  a  loop  of  faded 
ribbon,  too  weak  to  bar  a  butterfly.  He  had 
not  thought  there  were  so  many  in  all  Oldfield, 
counting  both  black  and  white,  for  both  were 
now  coming  and  going.  He  presently  realized 
that  some  of  these  sad  comers  and  sadder  goers 
were  not  Oldfield  people,  that  some  lived  farther 
away,  and  this  knowledge  filled  him  with  greater 
surprise.  For  he  would  not  have  supposed 

421 


OldMeld 

that  Miss  Judy  was  known  by  any  one  beyond 
the  compassing  hills,  so  completely  had  her  life 
seemed  bound  about  by  the  wooded  borders  of 
the  village.  He  had  never  known  until  now 

O 

how  far-reaching  the  influence  of  gentleness 
may  be ;  he  had  never  realized  until  this  mo 
ment  that  goodness  always  wins  more  friends 
than  greatness. 

He  said  something  of  this  to  the  doctor's  wife, 
when  she  came  softly  after  an  hour  had  passed 
and  silently  sat  down  beside  him  on  the  bench 
under  the  window.  She  did  not  reply  at  once, 
but  she  took  his  hand  and  pressed  it  with  the 
sympathy  which  common  trouble  begets  in 
every  feeling  heart.  She  did  not  know  how 
keenly  he  was  craving  sympathy,  how  sorely  he 
himself  was  needing  it,  how  bruised  and  broken 
he  was  by  the  spiritual  crisis  —  the  greatest  of 
his  life  —  through  which  he  was  passing  so 
hardly.  It  was  only  that  her  tender  heart  was 
tenderer  than  ever,  because  she  had  come  direct 
from  the  tavern. 

Thus  the  two  sat  for  a  few  moments  in 
silence,  listening  to  the  soft  sounds  which  came 
at  long  intervals  from  the  shadowed  quiet 
within  Miss  Judy's  room.  At  length  the  doc 
tor's  wife  began  to  talk  in  the  hushed  tone  which 
the  feeling  use  near  the  dying  —  who  appear 
to  hear  nothing  but  the  Call ;  and  near  the 
dead  —  who  appear  to  hear  nothing  —  nothing 
for  evermore.  She  said  that  Miss  Judy  had  not 
been  told  of  the  judge's  death ;  and  that  she 
mercifully  knew  nothing  of  the  horror  which 

422 


The  Last  Artfulness  of  Miss  Judy 

had  gone  before  the  tragedy.  There  was  no 
need  now  that  she  ever  should  know,  so  the 
doctor's  wife  said,  with  filling  eyes.  It  would 
be  time  enough  when  the  two  met  on  the 
Other  Side.  And  then  —  with  that  resistless 
reaching  toward  the  unknowable,  which  always 
moves  us  when  we  feel  the  Mystery  near,  so  near 
that  it  appears  as  if  we  have  but  to  put  out  our 
hand  to  seize  the  invisible  black  wings  which 
forever  elude  mortal  grasp  —  she  asked  him  if 
he  believed  that  Miss  Judy  would  know  even 
then.  She,  herself,  she  said,  could  not  see  how 
a  soul  as  gentle  as  the  soft  one  then  fluttering 
to  escape  its  frail  earthly  prison,  or  how  a  soul 
as  just  as  the  one  which  had  already  found  sacri 
ficial  release  from  a  life  of  suffering,  could  be 
happy  in  heaven  if  it  still  knew  the  pain  and 
the  wrong  and  the  cruelty  of  this  world.  But, 
however  that  might  be,  all  would  surely  be 
well  hereafter  with  these  two.  The  doctor's 
wife,  rising  to  go  back  to  the  tavern,  where 
other  sad  duties  were  yet  waiting  to  be  done, 
declared  this  with  conviction.  These  two  had 
not  had  their  just  share  of  happiness  here;  in 
fairness  it  must  be  awaiting  them  elsewhere, 
she  concluded,  lapsing  into  the  simple  audacity 
of  everyday  faith. 

Lynn  walked  with  her  a  little  way  along  the 
big  road,  and  when  she  had  gone  some  distance 
and  he  still  stood  looking  after  her,  he  heard 
again  the  sound  of  wheels  and  saw  a  vehicle 
approaching  through  the  clouds  of  dust.  He 
thought  at  first  that  the  colonel  had  "  remem- 

423 


Oldfield 

bered"  and  was  returning;  but  as  the  dusc- 
clouds  shifted  he  recognized  his  grandmother's 
coach  with  a  start  of  surprise,  and  a  feeling  very 
like  alarm  came  over  him  as  he  saw  that  she  her 
self,  erect,  massive,  white-robed,  sat  within  the 
coach.  He  waited,  standing  still  till  the  coach 
drew  nearer,  and  then  went  outside  and  turned 
down  the  folding  steps  —  from  which  the  little 
black  boy  sprang  —  and  assisted  her  to  descend. 
But  he  did  not  speak,  nor  did  she.  Silently  he 
offered  his  arm  and  she  took  it  as  silently  as  it 
had  been  offered,  and  they  went  together  toward 
the  passage  door.  It  touched  him  to  see  with 
what  difficulty  she  walked.  'Vt  moved  him  thus 
to  realize  suddenly  how  old  sne  was.  \Jt  seemed 
to  him  that  age  was  a  very  pitiful  thing.^  Yet  it 
also  impressed  him  to  see  what  a  fine,  stately 
personage  she  still  was ;  to  read  in  the  respect 
ful  eyes  which  followed  her  that  she  was  still 
the  great  lady  of  the  country,  as  she  always  had 
been. 

The  abrupt  withdrawal  of  her  hand  from  his 
arm  when  they  reached  the  door  told  him  that 
she  did  not  wish  him  to  enter  the  house  with 
her,  and  he  as  abruptly  drew  back,  feeling  the 
blood  rush  to  his  face  as  Sidney  came  out  of 
Miss  Judy's  room  to  receive  his  grandmother. 
Returning  to  his  seat  on  the  bench  under  the 
window,  he  tried  not  to  strain  his  ears  toward 
what  was  passing  within  the  room,  and  he  heard 
only  the  indistinct  murmur  of  voices.  But  he 
could  not  help  wondering  miserably  why  his 
grandmother  had  come.  He  knew  her  too  well 

424 


The  Last  Artfulness  of  Miss  Judy 

to  think  that  she  had  been  induced  to  come 
by  pure  fondness  for  Miss  Judy,  such  as  had 
brought  all  these  other  people,  who  were  so 
patiently  waiting  with  heavy  hearts  and  wet 
eyes.  The  sudden  thought  of  Doris  —  a  form 
less  fear  for  her  —  made  him  leap  to  his  feet. 
And  then  he  put  away  the  vague  alarm  as 
unworthy  of  the  rough  justice,  the  haughty 
generosity,  of  his  grandmother's  character.  He 
sat  down  humbly,  ashamed  of  his  passing  suspi 
cion,  to  wait  with  such  patience  and  composure 
as  he  might  muster  till  she  should  come  from 
Miss  Judy's  room.  But  the  intensity  of  his  sus 
pense  became  almost  unendurable  before  it  was 
ended.  When  his  grandmother  finally  appeared 
in  the  passage  door,  he  sprang  up  with  a  nervous 
start  and  hurried  to  help  her  to  the  coach.  Again 
they  were  both  silent  until  she  was  comfortably 
settled  on  the  easy  cushions,  silent  even  until 
the  bag  had  been  rehung  closer  to  her  hand, 
and  the  little  black  boy  was  again  seated  on 
the  refolded  step.  Then  she  told  him,  speak 
ing  slowly  and  gruffly  as  though  she  found  the 
few  words  hard  and  bitter  to  utter,  that  Miss 
Judy  had  asked  her  to  send  him  to  the  bedside. 
When  this  had  been  said,  and  he  had  made  no 
reply,  old  lady  Gordon  sat  still  and  silent  for  a 
moment,  looking  grimly  straight  ahead,  as  if 
there  were  something  else  which  she  wished  to 
say.  But  if  so  it  was  never  said ;  she  suddenly 
and  roughly  ordered  Enoch  Cotton  to  drive  her 
home,  and  went  away  —  poor  old  lady  Gordon 
—  without  a  single  backward  glance. 

425 


Oldfield 

The  young  man  then  turned  swiftly  and  went 
softly  into  Miss  Judy's  room,  as  the  reverential 
enter  a  holy  place.  Doris,  bending  over  the 
bed,  did  not  see  him  come.  Miss  Sophia 
was  dozing,  worn  out  with  watching  and  grief 
and —  most  of  all  —  with  trying  to  understand. 
Sidney  sat  motionless  in  the  farthest  corner  of 
the  quiet,  shadowy  old  room,  where  the  shadows 
were  deepest.  The  only  sound  was  the  hushed 
murmur  of  the  voices  of  the  many  others  who 
loved  Miss  Judy  and  who  watched  and  waited 
without ;  some  in  the  parlor,  which  had  been 
opened  wide  at  last,  others  in  the  passage,  and 
more  in  the  yard. 

The  little  figure  on  the  big  bed  lay  motion 
less  and  with  closed  eyes.  Such  a  little  creature, 
so  white,  so  beautiful,  so  wonderfully  young  — 
almost  like  a  child,  with  the  soft  rings  of  silver 
hair  wreathing  the  border  of  the  snowy  cap,  and 
the  little  arms  which  always  had  been  so  strong 
for  burdens,  and  the  little,  little  hands,  which 
always  had  been  so  busy  for  everybody  but  her 
self,  resting  now  —  as  still  and  cold  as  snow- 
flakes —  on  the  deep  blue  of  the  old  quilt. 
Looking  down  with  dim  sight  and  swelling 
heart,  Lynn  thought  of  the  Divine  Bambino 
lying  asleep  on  its  azure  shield ;  he  could  think 
of  nothing  else  so  unearthly  in  its  loveliness. 

The  blue  eyes  opened  as  if  Miss  Judy  had 
felt  his  presence,  and  the  flicker  of  a  smile  went 
over  the  sweet,  quiet  face.  The  young  man, 
leaning  down,  thought  that  she  murmured 
something  in  apology,  that  she  tried  to  say 

426 


The  Last  Artfulness  of  Miss  Judy 

something  about  a  gentlewoman's  bed-cham 
ber.  But  the  words  were  so  faintly  uttered, 
and  the  pauses  between  were  so  long,  that  he 
could  not  be  sure. 

"Dear  Miss  Judy,  is  there  anything — any 
thing  in  the  whole  world  —  that  I  can  do  ?  "  he 
said,  with  all  his  heart. 

"  It  is  about  the  selling  of  the  house.  We 
can't  depend  on  John  Stanley  to  sell  it  —  to 
pay  himself,"  panted  Miss  Judy  with  long,  an 
guished  waits  between  the  words,  almost  be 
tween  the  breaths. 

There  was  a  still  longer  pause  after  this,  a 
still  longer  wait  for  a  slow  wandering  breeze  to 
bring  the  needed  breath. 

"  Dear  John,"  Miss  Judy  murmured,  when 
she  could  speak  again,  "he  must  not*  know 

—  till  the  note  is  paid.     He  doesn't  quite  real 
ize  what  is  due  our  father.     You  must  overlook 
it,  sister  Sophia.     He  means  only  to  be  kind 

—  so,  so  kind." 

"Just  so,  sister  Judy,5'  replied  poor  Miss 
Sophia,  through  the  habit  of  a  long  lifetime, 
not  knowing  what  she  said. 

"  Dear  John.  Dear  John,"  Miss  Judy  said 
again,  hardly  louder  than  her  fluttering  breath. 

There  was  a  slight  movement  of  her  hand, 
and  although  the  nerveless,  cold  little  fingers 
fell  powerless  on  the  old  blue  quilt,  the  girl  who 
hung  over  her  knew  what  the  movement  meant. 
Doris  understood  that  Miss  Judy  wished  to 
have  the  judge's  letter  read  to  her  again ;  but 
before  it  could  be  drawn  from  beneath  the  pil- 

427 


Oldfield 

low  the  blue  eyes  were  closed,  and  Miss  Judy 
seemed  softly  to  fall  asleep.  In  the  deep  silence 
which  followed  the  shadowed  room  was  filled 
with  the  hushed  hum  of  the  voices  of  the  people 
waiting  outside. 

It  seemed  to  the  watchers  a  long  time  before 
Miss  Judy's  blue  eyes  opened  gently,  yet  sud 
denly  and  with  a  clearer  look.  It  was  a  look 
quite  like  her  old  sweet  self.  There  was  in  it 
even  a  fleeting  expression  almost  like  her  old 
innocent  artfulness. 

"  I  hope  you  won't  mind  —  the  —  trouble," 
she  said,  going  on  after  a  long  pause,  after  wait 
ing  for  her  reluctant  breath  to  return ;  after 
waiting  for  her  true  heart  to  beat  once  more. 
"I — should  like — you  —  to  —  to  consult  Doris 
—  ofte'n." 

The  blue  eyes  wandered  from  the  young 
man's  face  to  the  golden  head  bowed  at  the 
bedside.  At  least  the  young  man  thought  so, 
but  his  own  eyes  were  very  dim,  his  own  heart 
was  beating  very,  very  fast,  and  he  could  not 
see  very  clearly. 

"  I  will  do  all  that  you  wish,  as  nearly  as  I 
can,"  he  said  tremulously.  "But  —  dear  Miss 
Judy,  have  you  considered  ?  This  is  your  sis 
ter's  home  —  all  that  she  has  in  the  world." 

Miss  Judy's  little  hand  tried  to  creep  toward 
her  sister's,  but  its  strength  failing  Doris  ten 
derly  took  it  in  hers  and  laid  it  on  Miss  Sophia's. 
Yet  even  then,  when  it  had  grown  cold  —  with 
the  coldness  that  never  passes,  and  had  become 
weak  with  the  weakness  that  can  never  gain 

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The  Last  Artfulness  of  Miss  Judy 

strength  —  it  made  a  slight  protecting  move 
ment. 

"Sister  Sophia  —  isn't  —  willing  —  to  keep 
what  is  —  not  —  our  own.  And  Doris  —  " 

There  now  followed  so  long  a  pause  that 
Doris,  who  had  been  quiet  and  calm  in  her 
self-control  up  to  this  moment,  thought  it  too 
late  for  her  grief  to  disturb  Miss  Judy  —  be 
lieved  it  to  be  time  to  say  quickly  what  she 
wished  to  say,  if  Miss  Judy  ever  were  to  hear 
—  and,  dropping  all  guard,  she  burst  into  a 
passion  of  protest  and  weeping. 

"  Oh,  you  do  believe  that  I  can  do  what  I  have 
promised,  dear,  dear  Miss  Judy.  You  surely 
believe  that  I  can  do  what  I  have  promised ! " 
she  cried.  "  It  would  break  my  heart  to  think 
that  you  doubted.  I  don't  know  how  I  can  do 
it,  but  I  will — I  will  —  I  will  —  somehow.  I 
will  take  care  of  Miss  Sophia  —  always  —  I  will 
work  so  hard.  There  must  be  work  —  some 
where,  for  me  to  do.  Whatever  I  can  make 
shall  be  hers.  Anyway,  our  home  is  hers.  I 
will  try  to  be  as  good  to  her  —  as  you  have 
been  to  me." 

"  I  do  believe  —  my  child,"  the  faint  and 
distant  but  sweet  and  loving  voice  said  quite 
distinctly,  and  then,  after  one  of  the  long,  flut 
tering  pauses,  "but  —  you  must  let — Lynn  — 
advise  you." 

"  Oh,  if  Doris  only  would  —  if  you  only  could 
persuade  her,"  Lynn  cried. 

He  fell  on  his  knees  beside  the  slender 
bowed  figure,  and  laid  his  trembling  hand  on 

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the  golden  head  which  rested  now,  shaken  by 
sobbing,  on  the  pillow  close  to  the  silver  head 
that  lay  so  quiet.  He  made  no  further  vain 
effort  to  restrain  a  man's  rare,  reluctant  tears, 
nor  to  steady  his  broken  voice. 

"  If  you  will  ask  Doris  —  maybe  she  can  for 
give  me  —  for  what  I  never  meant  to  do  —  for 
what  I  did  not  know  I  was  doing  —  till  too  late. 
Won't  you  ask  ? "  he  implored.  "  Dear,  dear 
Miss  Judy,  she  can  refuse  nothing  —  not  even 
that  —  to  you.  And  I  love  her  so  —  with  all 
my  heart  and  soul  and  mind  and  strength. 
Won't  you  ask  her  to  let  me  help  her  in  caring 
for  Miss  Sophia  —  then  all  would  be  well ; 
then  there  need  be  no  more  trouble.  Can't 
you  speak,  dear  Miss  Judy?  Just  one  word. 
Try  —  try  to  ask  her  to  let  me  help  her  — 
even  though  she  may  never  consent  to  be  my 
wife." 

But  this  late-found,  powerful  plea  seemed  for 
a  space  to  come  too  late,  to  fall  all  unheeded 
away  from  death's  deaf  ears.  A  wonderful 
radiance,  such  as  rarely  dawns  in  the  face  of 
the  living,  was  now  slowly  dawning  in  the 
sweet,  still  whiteness  of  Miss  Judy's  face.  The 
young  man  could  not  look  upon  it;  he  could 
not  bear  to  hear  Doris's  helpless,  heart-broken 
sobbing ;  he  could  only  keep  to  his  knees  and 
lay  his  humbled  head  lower  on  the  old  quilt  and 
nearer  hers. 

And  then  after  a  long  time,  after  all  hope 
of  hearing  the  gentle  voice  again  seemed 
wholly  lost,  it  came  back  like  a  whisper  in  a 

43° 


The  Last  Artfulness  of  Miss  Judy 

dream,  and  Lynn  and  Doris  heard  Miss  Judy 
say:  — 

"I  do  —  ask  —  it — Doris  —  dear  one.      But 

—  unless  —  you    are  —  married  —  it    wouldn't 

—  be " 

She  could  say  no  more,  but  she  had  said 
enough.  With  this  crowning  triumph  of  her 
last  artless  plot  the  smile  on  the  little  white 
face  brightened  forever  into  unearthly  sweet 
ness.  With  these  last  words  Miss  Judy's  gentle 
spirit  breathed  itself  out  of  the  world. 


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